Through Your Eyes
by Madame Cyanure
Summary: An incident at 221B Baker Street leads to strange and frankly terrifying consequences. Soon, what started out as a mere laboratory accident results in all-out war. How will the boys cope? Bodyswap fic. xx
1. Chapter 1

**Through Your Eyes**

Pain. That was the last thing that he remembered feeling, coupled with a side dish of anger. The inevitable irritation that the curiosity of that insufferable shit of a know-it-all who the Universe deigned to call Sherlock Sodding Holmes knew no bounds. The man had no concept of personal space, happily flouting the first law of shared accommodation; defile you own room and the communal areas as much as you like, but keep your crap out of your flatmate's bedroom. It was a simple rule, and yet he had found his room looking like a cross between Victor Frankenstein's lab and a fucking Prohibition distillery! John briefly wondered how Sherlock had made it through University alive; by rights his corpse should have met a shallow grave long ago, preferably being pissed on by tramps in the shadier part of an old Tesco car park.

Then came the row, obviously. John knew he shouldn't have lobbed that weird flask-like contraption full of strange brown liquid (and something that smelt like bad nail-varnish remover, not that he cared) at Sherlock, but sometimes those cheekbones deserved something more than a slap. Still, it missed, hitting the wall with a tinkle of pointed broken glass. The delay between the impact and the explosion was almost comical, worthy of Wile-E Coyote, but then came the searing agony followed swiftly by the bliss of blacking-out. Now that he had regained some sort of consciousness, it had become obvious from his spinal discomfort and the lack of flexibility of the surface that the blast had cast him to the hard wooden floor. Literally; it was hard wood, oak if he had to guess. Soft woods such as pine would be more prone to indentation when he clawed at the boards with his fingernails, not to mention leaving a lack of the aesthetic of which Mrs Hudson was so fond, thus also eliminating laminate because she found it distasteful. Hence, given the age of the building and the central London location, oak was the only logical choice. Well, there was always mahogany, but what right-minded Victorian would use a decorative wood for something as primitive as flooring? Shit.

What the hell was that? John knew fuck all about both wood and 221B's history. Both areas hadn't been his forte at school; one teacher had told him he would never amount to anything and the other had told him that his bird box would kill anything that went inside. His pounding headache and the slight floating feeling he was experiencing told John he definitely had a concussion, but there was also a weird, alarming sense of clarity instead of the expected confusion. He checked himself for memory loss to affirm his diagnosis; what was he doing before he came home to this mess? That's right, he was with Stamford. It was the one time a month where he felt obliged to indulge his 'normal' friendships and just generally keep sane, with the help of plenty of beer. John had attempted to discuss the man's teaching position at St Bart's, gleaning a bit of nostalgia gossip in the process, and Stamford chatted with ease about the status of almost every year group and all the little shits he had to deal with. The amount of first years passing out at the sight of their first corpse (12 this year), what final year smart-arses he couldn't wait to get rid of, that sort of thing. Interestingly though, Stamford had avoided speaking about his second year students, which John had brushed off at the time as there was plenty to talk about, but now the realities of a mate dodging a bullet were sinking in.

Why not talk about arguably the most interesting and gossip fuelled student year of them all? It was the time where most students decided that they loathed the workload and difficulty associated with medicine and found out that if they wanted to have their alcohol-soaked cake and to eat it, they should have picked another degree. Stamford attended many of the official society functions where students made a fool of themselves, so it was unlikely that he wouldn't have a tale or two to tell. But he had also showed unease when John had asked him about his wife; the fact that his eyes kept darting over his shoulder and the shallowness of breath whenever Melissa was brought up suggested that Stamford was keeping secrets from her. Then there were his clothes; his shirt was excessively crumpled. Inevitably there was a certain level of untidiness associated with a full day's work, but a man of Stamford's position would keep his shirts ironed in order to set an example to his students and this shirt had been disregarded in a hurry an hour or so before their meet-up. Stamford's cologne was a little stronger than necessary for a working day, not to mention that it was mingled with something that smelt worryingly familiar to John's senses; so Stamford had been meeting a woman after work. And then it hit home; Mike was having an affair with one of his students! Holy crap! John's eyes snapped open.

Seriously. What. The. Hell. Why wouldn't his brain shut up? This felt like a cross between a rollercoaster and Formula One – it didn't make sense and yet it did. He didn't know that Stamford was shagging a twenty year old when he left the pub, otherwise John would have bollocked him for throwing away a marriage that had begun before the girl was even born. And yet the facts were all there; why weren't they there before? Had someone drugged him again? Other peoples' private lives were flooding towards him like some colossal tidal wave, even people in the street who he hadn't looked twice at last week were telling him their darkest secrets. Why couldn't he turn it off?! Panic was starting to set in when his eyes finally took in his surroundings, and then he noticed a long, curly black lock of hair creeping across his peripheral vision.

Finally summoning enough energy to move, John reached slowly and awkwardly towards his head, groping at the minor annoyance in the corner of his eye. Upon discovering that the annoyance was no longer minor and that he in fact found a lot of black hair which was attached to _his_ head, John's senses flared to full alert. Had Sherlock been making some sort of hair growth potion? No, that would be too simple, plus John forcibly reminded himself that his hair was sandy, not jet. He scrambled to his feet, noting hands that were logically too big and too pale to belong to him, with limbs that were far too long to work properly. Staggering to grab hold of the door, John briefly fantasised that Sherlock's misdemeanours had finally turned him into a superhero, but reminded himself that this was ridiculous and subconsciously abolished all thoughts of this right down to the concept of who Captain America was. But still, for some unknown reason it felt like John was taller, thinner even; he confirmed this by looking down, surveying a thin wiry frame in a well cut, expensive tailored suit. The floor was a long way down, and he attributed the instantaneous nausea to something like vertigo. John thought that he now had a pretty good idea of what had gone down during the explosion, but he really didn't like where his deductions were leading him.

Somewhat disjointedly, he swung around the charred bedroom door to view the remaining shard of a full-length mirror. As he assessed all of the facts and familiar features in the glass before him, John couldn't help but emit a small sound that sounded like a very profane jaguar trapped in a cello.

'Fuck.'

Either he had died and gone to hell, or the man formerly named John Watson would now be calling himself Sherlock Holmes. He then threw up.

**Reviews are much appreciated. I'm going to do things from Sherlock's point of view next, but this may turn into a multichapter story if I get enough support from you guys. Thanks for reading! MC. :) xx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Through Your Eyes: Part 2**

You could argue that it was the acrid smell of vomit that woke him, or even the growling stream of swear-words that were bouncing around the room in a very familiar tone. Yet neither of these things bothered him enough to knock his body back into consciousness. No; it was the silence. Someone or something had switched his brain off, and Sherlock could hear nothing but the confused and whimsical thoughts of a person who had just revived after an explosion. He groaned audibly; everything hurt, he had a headache the size of Mount Everest, and a dull sense of aching discomfort in his left shoulder. Sherlock was reminded forcibly of the time Mycroft had goaded him into downing half a bottle of scotch in his early teens; waking up naked and ill in the middle of the grounds to fuming parents. Had that happened again? A slight uncomfortable wiggle told him he was at least wearing _some_ sort of clothing, but he had no idea where he was and didn't quite have the energy to open his eyes yet (nor could he be bothered). Every thought that slowly meandered through his mind was selfish, sluggish, and mundanely curious. But none were deductive; the silence was beautiful. Still, the theoretically hung-over Sherlock thought that he should at least make an effort to work out where he was.

He was lying face down on something squishy but firm, feeling somewhat like a starfish hanging off a rock. There was something wet and sticky on his face, trickling down his cheek, and also a cool stinging sensation which flared up with the breeze. Moving his heavy head a fraction created a tinkling noise and also more scratches; ouch! So, he was lying sprawled and bleeding on something mildly comfortable with glass embedded in it, and he may or may not have been outdoors. That was as far as Sherlock got. What on Earth was going on? Someone had stolen his racing engine, and he didn't even care. The last time that he had felt anywhere near this peaceful was at the height of his heroin addiction (that was until some government lackeys dragged him away to some hellish cell they called rehab), but even the smack hadn't completely switched off his hyperactive brain. Sherlock wasn't on drugs now; he knew what that felt like, and what he was experiencing now was a completely different shade of exquisite. Just like before, the word_ beautiful_ danced across his mind in tiny little fairy lights.

'Sherlock!'

He was being shaken. It was rather abrupt and painful, jolting more tiny scratches into his nose. Also, Sherlock felt it was a little bit rude, given how he was otherwise content just to lie here; all he wanted was to sleep this fug off, then overdose on the bacon that was currently living next to the small intestine in the fridge. He really couldn't be bothered to speak, so decided to convey his disgust using the universal noise of protest.

'Mmmmffffff!' Sherlock briefly entertained the idea of flipping his attacker off, remembered that Mummy thought it the height of bad manners, and reconsidered. Then he also remembered how much it would irritate Mycroft, so generously decided to do it anyway.

'Seriously, Sherlock; wake up! Get the fuck up now!'

Why did it sound like he was shouting at himself? It was definitely his voice, but it wasn't him using it. That would have necessitated the opening his mouth which, aside from him being unaware that his mouth was moving, would require more effort than he could be bothered to give whilst indulging in his newfound bliss. Still, curiosity got the better of him and the only way to get rid of the voice was to find out where it was coming from. Slowly, his head pounding, Sherlock rolled his body towards his voice, tilting his head up in childlike fascination as he opened one eye. What he saw gave a new name to outer-body experiences.

'Whatever you've done, Sherlock, we need to fix this now. What were you working on before the explosion?'

His own body was looming over him, with an unusual and uncharacteristic expression of concern crossing his face as longish hair tickled Sherlock's nose. His black Versace suit was stained with something that smelt a lot like stomach acid (oh, so that's who had vomited) and his other self seemed somewhat unsteady on his feet, grasping the remains of a bedframe (indoors then; John's room , judging by the remains of the hideous wallpaper). A localised explosion did make sense, given the amount of damage that Sherlock surveyed when he finally deigned to open his other eye and prop himself up in an awkward sitting position, but it didn't answer the question. Given how trippy this whole experience already was, Sherlock's confused brain thought that he should answer his own question with an equally clever and quirky answer. Well, as close as he could muster.

'I dunno. You tell me. You're the smart...one.'

That sounded like John's voice. But John wasn't in the room; there weren't many places to hide under broken glass and burn floorboards, and Sherlock was definitely speaking this time (his mouth seemed to have moved). Simultaneous to this vocal discovery, Sherlock had also realised that he was wearing a rather unflattering grey cardigan. Some sort of truth was dawning upon Sherlock, stamping out his unadulterated happiness as a rather horrible idea came stampeding towards the front of his mind. Sherlock's next move resulted in him tumbling off the bed whilst his body struggled to keep up with his brain, adding to his bruises by face-planting the floor. His other self snorted ruefully as Sherlock crawled towards the mirror.

'Finally caught up, have you?' he watched himself purr in the mirror reflection, as he prodded and poked the squashy parts of_ John's_ anatomy in shock. 'Yes, you're me. Unfortunately, I'm you. Now sort this shit out!'

Sherlock walked slowly back to where not-Sherlock was standing, his new stature forcing him to address the taller man in a humiliating role reversal, like a schoolboy awaiting punishment from a particularly irritable headmaster.

'John?'

'Yes, well done. I see that your cognitive powers are limited to the body rather than the personality, evident from the length of time it took you to reach that relatively simple conclusion. Wasn't it evident from the way I carry myself differently to you? Didn't it occur to you that I was the only option for the transfer, seeing as it wasn't long-distance and that we were the only two people in the room? Because it did to me, along with ninety-nine other possible pieces of evidence. As you can see, I am already very annoyed with the amount of intellectual crap in my head, and am especially sick of being _you_. Now, sort this piece of shit out before they make another Freaky Fucking Friday film out of it!'

Sherlock tried to raise an eyebrow at John's tirade, but he was pretty sure that the expression just came off as despondent and deadpan. 'I'd thank you not to fill my mouth with profanity whilst you are in my body, John.'

'You flipped me off not five minutes ago!'

'That was different. You woke me from a situation of which I was most happy in. Besides, I didn't actually speak and your body is used to making rude gestures.' The smugness of this response was enough to redden his counterpart's cheeks.

'How is this an ideal situation, Sherlock?! We are standing in my burnt out room, literally not ourselves, and I feel like I've swallowed the Encyclopaedia Britannica! Fix. This.'

'I can't.'

'What?'

'Or rather, I won't. You see John; I quite like the fact that you've borrowed my brain. It _is_ nice not being me. For once I can switch it off, have some tranquillity for the first time since my family forced me to get clean. And given that, whilst you are currently in possession of my deductive powers, my knowledge of the chemical sciences has evidently been transferred with me and incidentally compliments your surgical skills, which are still in here.' Sherlock tapped the side of John's head. 'So in order to correct this mistake we would have to do it on my terms, and I don't want to do that just yet.'

'Git. What if I make you?' It was odd seeing himself snarl.

'Given that any reasonable man would rather not harm his own body, I hold all the cards don't you think? Now if you'll excuse me, I am taking a holiday from my life.' Sherlock allowed that warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest to turn into a Cheshire Cat smile. 'Try not to get any more vomit on my suits in the meantime.'

Sherlock turned heel and made for the door, stumbling as he misjudged the stride required for a shorter, stockier man. He wasn't even planning his next move, which felt pleasantly odd, and all the while John was cursing and shouting at him in baritone.

'SHERLOCK HOLMES! Get your – my – arse back here right now or I swear I'll….! John was cut off by a sharp knock on the sitting room door; Sherlock froze mid-flight across the kitchen.

'Ooo! Ooo!' Mrs Hudson's little coo rang through the flat. 'Boys! Is everything okay? I heard noises. I'm coming in; if Sherlock has damaged anything again, it's coming out of the rent this time!'

John had joined a stunned Sherlock in the kitchen. 'Act normal!' he hissed. That much was obvious, but an unanswered question hung in the air between them. Normal for whom?

**Again, reviews are loved and con-crit is welcome. Also what would you like Sherlock to do as John? I've got a rough idea of what I want John to put Sherlock's body through, but the other way around is proving a little difficult. MC. :) xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Through Your Eyes: Part 3**

Mrs Hudson loved her boys dearly, even with all their little carryings on. She thought of Sherlock as a surrogate son, his own parents obviously having neglected their little boy in favour of a detached public school education; all that his cold exterior needed was motherly love. And John, well the polite young man had bonded with her over late morning telly, and it was really helpful for her ailments having such a caring doctor around the house. Although, as she briskly trotted into their kitchen to administer a fond telling-off for interrupting her afternoon nap, she immediately noticed that something was wrong. John was standing astride in the middle of the room looking haughty, with an upright and defensive posture, as if he was just about to storm out. Meanwhile, Sherlock was leaning in the doorway of the adjacent bedroom, sheepish and blushing furiously. Perhaps they had had a little spat? It wouldn't be the first time and they were as thick as thieves, so who knew what went on behind the relatively closed doors of her upstairs flat?

'Everything alright with you boys? I heard this awful thump from downstairs – jolted me right out of my post-Deal or No Deal nap. Although, mind you, good job it did; The Chase is on in a minute.' She fussed around them, shifting the empty coffee mugs from the breakfast table to the sink. Oh dear, they didn't seem to be making eye contact; definitely trouble in Paradise then. 'Sherlock, would you mind keeping it down next time? Those sorts of surprises aren't good at my time of life.'

With no answer from either man, Mrs Hudson was about to continue her train of thought, saying that she didn't mind if they got up to That Sort Of Thing because she'd heard all about it from Marie Turner next door but there was only so much "young love" her heart could take, when she caught a glimpse of the catastrophe which Sherlock was unsuccessfully trying to obscure with his thin torso. She pushed past him to fully absorb the extent of the damage, appalled but only mildly surprised. She spun back to Sherlock, whose miffed expression would not have looked out of place on the face of a kicked puppy.

'What have you done to my bedroom?! This is my house you know! Sherlock, do you know how much this is going to cost you? It will take me weeks to clear this up!'

'I thought you weren't our housekeeper?' John spat at her in retort.

'I'm not.' She shot back, affronted. 'And don't you dare give me lip, Dr John Watson!'

'I sincerely apologise, Mrs Hudson; you are neither our housekeeper, nor do you deserve to be treated as such. A case required a laboratory experiment which, as you can see, backfired. I'll pay for it out of my fee for the case.' Sherlock spoke up, cutting across whatever John was about to say next; his voice, though quiet, filled the tense room. Evidently this revelation was as much of a surprise to John as it was to Mrs Hudson; she caught the confused expression and the emphasis around the hurriedly mouthed '_What?!'_ in the corner of her eye. What was even odder was the cruel smile that responded to John's silent query.

'Well I should expect so, young man. And thank you for saying sorry – it is nice for a lady to know that she is appreciated now and then. Are you sure everything is okay between you two?' Mrs Hudson was filled with warmth, as this was about as close as Sherlock would ever get to thanking her. However, alarm flickered across Sherlock's face at her response and the moment passed almost instantaneously.

'No, nothing is wrong. I see that you have been to the Bingo hall again. An entire two booklets? It really is the most subtle form of gambling, though you were a tad excessive.' Sherlock snapped at her, speaking a little too quickly for comfort.

'Why – ? Yes –' As expected, Sherlock continued to snipe at her.

'Obviously I could tell from the red pen marks on the fingers of your right hand. You could have been writing addresses on parcels, however this is unlikely as the only time you send any sort of parcel is to your nieces at Christmas and your preferred pen in doing this yearly chore is a black Sharpie permanent marker. Clearly the pen you used this morning was neither black nor permanent, judging by the smears on your skin, and the tip was flat and not of any use outside of a specific location, namely an OAP cage such as a Bingo hall. Ergo, the pen was a Bingo pen, informally known as a "Dabber". Now the booklets; since you arrived upstairs you have been toying with a cut on your index finger. It is quite deep, which suggests a repetitive and hurried action as you inevitably searched for the next ticket in a rapid-fire game. Not to mention the fact that I can see the stubs protruding from your cardigan pocket and your falsely jolly demeanour suggesting that although you spent a lot of money and clearly enjoyed your time at the hall, you did not save enough of your winnings to compensate. Please be careful next time Mrs Hudson; we don't want you to lose the house.' Sherlock finally decided to breathe, apparently satisfied with his deduction.

Mrs Hudson was taken aback as usual. 'Well…I don't really see what it has to do with you. I did have a nice time actually.'

'Are we done?' John huffed, hugging his chest. 'As you yourself pointed out, Mrs Hudson, awful daytime television awaits. Now kindly shut up and go away!'

'Really, John! Your behaviour is horrid today! I don't care what you are arguing about, but sort it out because this attitude doesn't suit you.' She made for downstairs as fast as her hip could carry her, hoping that they would resolve things soon. Sherlock and John weren't themselves, and she couldn't bear her boys going through a bumpy patch.

xxxxx

'What the hell was that?' John hissed as soon as Mrs Hudson was out of earshot. 'I told you to act normal, not like a complete and utter arsehole!'

'It got rid of her didn't it?' Sherlock shot back at him.

'Yes, with me taking the rap for it! I can't have people thinking –'

'Thinking what? That you can get straight to the point? That you are me? Anyway, what were you doing saying that? I won't be paying for the damage to _your_ room, as it clearly wasn't my fault, and you know full well that Mycroft has frozen all of my accounts. I refuse to give an apology where it is hardly warranted; something which you knew full well and yet proceeded with anyway.'

John felt like he was spitting fire, his brain sparking with a million retorts. '_Clearly not your fault_ – you started it when you chose to dump your gear in my bedroom! You did need to apologise because she does a hell of a lot for you and I think you should show her that you are actually human now and again. So, whilst I'm in here, _Sherlock Holmes_ treats Mrs Hudson like a queen. You've got a problem with that? You change us back. Oh and I know that it was so grossly out of character that she might have noticed, which is why I let one of those insane deductions rip.'

'Mediocre at best.'

'Well I'm sorry if I've only been inside your head for less than half an hour! It was more than you did to help anyway, standing there being all sultry; which by the way is not a good look for me. If you've got issues with the way I deduce, then give me back my own body.'

Sherlock's reply was interrupted by a high-pitched ping. Sighing, John fished Sherlock's phone out of the suit pocket, knowing what was coming next. He read the text.

_Double homicide on the Northern Line. Meet me at Kings Cross. Lestrade._

'Well,' John spoke slowly, 'one of us has got a case.'

'One of us?'

'Clearly from what we just displayed to poor Mrs Hudson, we can't be trusted to act like one another whilst in the same room. I'll go, given that I actually look like you and can actually use some of the facts you've squashed into your overstuffed cranium. I don't know, maybe I'll find you some more friends, seeing as you've obviously kept your ego.'

'You're not going! I am the world's only consulting detective; I should take the case. I will not have my body reduced to interacting with simpletons such as Anderson.'

'Thanks for proving my point, Sherlock. And, just to remind you, you are now defined as "ordinary" by your own personal standards.'

'Shut it, John!' Sherlock was irate, his manner clearly becoming childish. 'You can't stop me from going, and I will take the case. Besides, there are things which I want to do that only suit a quiet brain such as yours.'

And with that, John watched Sherlock stride briskly out of the flat, deliberately sweeping up his own grey trench coat rather than John's jacket. At some point, Sherlock would get bored, but John had a feeling that he would have to make the other man crack first in order to get his body back soon. _There are things which I want to do._ John grimaced at the thought. Two could play at that game.

**Thanks for all of your amazing reviews and ideas! Keep them coming and I'll keep writing. MC. :) xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Through Your Eyes: Part 4**

As soon as he was sure that Sherlock was clear of the building (57 short steps followed by the fading purr of a taxi engine, because apparently he knew that sort of thing now), John burst unceremoniously into his flatmate's bedroom, fumbling at the lock with clumsy, oversized hands. He had been in here before of course, manhandling Sherlock into bed (no, not like that, he chided his overactive imagination) after particularly arduous cases, but what he was planning now felt exquisitely forbidden. Never had the contrast between Sherlock and John been more stark, even if John's room hadn't been bombed out; you could tell a lot about a man from his private space, and Sherlock was meticulous. Seriously, when Benjamin Franklin had said "everything in its place and a place for everything" he must have at least spent a nanosecond of his time with Sherlock Holmes. The floor was spotless, the bed linen was folded down tighter than a boa constrictor's prey, and everything was orientated just so to comply with whatever optimum angle Sherlock had decided upon. And, just like the man himself, the room irritated John more than a little bit. By this point John was pretty sure that Sherlock's obsessive compulsive tendencies had been transferred with him, and so he had no qualms whatsoever about moving the alarm clock a couple of inches to the right. Sherlock would immediately know that something was wrong, but with decreased brainpower he wouldn't quite be able to put his finger on it. The resulting hissy fit would be worth it, so John decided to flip a pillow over for good measure.

Now to get what he came for. John shrugged off the soiled suit jacket and left it in a crumpled heap upon the floor. Initially his reasons for coming in here had been practical; John would need to change into clean clothes which actually fitted him before the fun and games could truly begin. But then curiosity kicked in and human nature compelled him to be nosey. He strode (rather quickly for his liking) over to the fitted wardrobe feeling a cross between perverse excitement and terror, letting his hand hover above the curved handle. What would there be in here? Could there be a porno stash, disproving John's theory that Sherlock was the asexual strawberry plant whom everyone thought him to be? Or sex toys? A related notion hit John with the speed of a train; oh God, it was likely that he would be forced to explore that area later. If the two of them really were doing this _that_ had to be the first ground rule and John just hoped to high hell that he wouldn't need the toilet anytime soon. He desperately tried to shake the onslaught of images from his mind, starting to hope for the less surprising find of an actual skeleton in the wardrobe instead.

John finally summoned up the courage to open the doors and prepared to dive in like an Olympian on the high-board. At first glance the contents of Sherlock's wardrobe seemed pretty ordinary, bar the fact that it was sectioned by colour and level of "disguise". John took a brief moment to admire the extent of Sherlock's suit collection – Jesus, look at those tags! John had always known that the Holmes family were powerful, but he was shocked to find out just how loaded they really were; half of this collection alone was worth more than John's army pension. Eventually he pushed past the suit menagerie in search of something more comfortable to wear, because John had been sick of formal dress by the time he had left the military anyway. This was when Narnia really got interesting. Obviously there was all the police gear which Sherlock had procured as part of his detective work, ranging from crime scene tape to cuffs to several IDs (mostly belonging to DS Anderson), then John made an alarming discovery underneath a mountain of blood-stained dog collars at the back of the top shelf.

Needles. Lots of hypodermic needles, obviously stolen from St Bart's, and some looked used. John had found the remnants of Sherlock's secret stash; he panicked and searched the area further. No drugs, but then again it was likely that Sherlock knew full well where he could get his fix and was smart enough not to keep the things in the flat. John confiscated the needles without a second thought; even if it wasn't a current thing, he was going to give Sherlock such a bollocking for this. Putting aside the box of terrors next to a suspicious-looking object which resembled a voodoo doll (a theory seemingly confirmed by a collection of DNA samples which John found later), John turned his attention to the bottom of the wardrobe, which had apparently been set alight by a stray cigarette lighter almost a year prior, judging by the scorch marks. John had wondered why the flat had smelt like burnt toast for the entire month of September; he guessed that he had found his answer.

There was at least half an hour's worth of entertainment in here, but John was wary of Sherlock's knack for spontaneity and surprise and so just took a quick inventory. He counted two lone socks, because apparently even Sherlock Holmes and his sock index were not immune to the odd-sock conundrum which plagued mankind; a case full of glass eyes; a dead butterfly underneath an oversized magnifying glass; an old high school yearbook, complete with enough scathing comments to make John wince; an ugly dressing gown, probably a Christmas present; and a singed game of Monopoly (perhaps not a "stray" lighter then). Then, in the corner next to a neglected teddy bear and a permanent marker, John finally found what he was looking for. One pair of Levi Strauss jeans, unused and complete with tags, and a blue t-shirt bearing the slogan "I am a fucking genius" which no doubt had originated as a piss-take from Scotland Yard. Unsurprisingly, the t-shirt had also never been worn. John snatched these up and changed as quickly as he could, avoiding noticing Sherlock's silk boxers as much as possible. Compared to the suit, the comfort of this outfit was unparalleled and, as John stood up to view the mirror, made Sherlock actually appear normal. John still didn't feel quite right though, so retrieved his spare jumper from the armchair in the lounge, noting with sadness that it was more than a little baggy on Sherlock's body. At last he felt properly dressed, and tidied up Sherlock's bedroom so that it looked untouched bar the few minor changes which John had made. As a final afterthought, John dug out the marker pen and drew his best phallic doodle in the corner of the periodic table, labelling it Sherlockium.

Now, as he closed the bedroom door, it was time to execute the first stage of his plan. Sherlock had already provided an excuse to visit St Bart's; John didn't need to worry there, as the other man had been whinging for the past week that the management were on his back about Sherlock using an "unacceptable quota of bodies". So, all that John would need to do to remain in character was turn up, then berate and manipulate some low level porters into forking over some fresh corpses. He might as well do something that Sherlock would see as being nice first, John thought as he strolled through the front door (because only Sherlock Holmes's ego needed a coat at this time of year), noting happily that it didn't hurt his shoulder to reach out behind and secure the lock shut. Yes, John would be helpful to Sherlock, although only because it gave John an excuse to go and be _very nice_ to Molly instead.

**Any thoughts on where this is leading? I'll flip back to Sherlock next. MC. :) xx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Through Your Eyes: Part 5**

Sherlock stormed away from the crime scene, feeling humiliated. This was undoubtedly the worst experience of his professional life, he thought as he reached the police line, stumbling over the coat and his own feet in equal measure. Upon arriving at the station, he was greeted by a lawfully sombre yet jovial Lestrade who had promptly asked if "John" had dressed in a darkened room before coming to inspect the victims. Sherlock had been forced to respond with a grimace and an explanation that he had been drinking earlier in the evening, an illusion supported by the headache which was still rattling around his tender skull. Lestrade had then asked if he could join him next time. This frivolous and frankly pointless exchange over, he had allowed Lestrade to escort him through the disused underground tunnels leading to the bodies, talking him through what little the police already knew. Time of death estimated as just within two hours prior, the corpses were barely identifiable as one male and one female, no witnesses, a maintenance worker had found them like this, etcetera. Normally Sherlock would have started collating evidence at the exact moment Lestrade had opened his mouth to give his little pre-planned speech – by this point he could generally feel his brilliant mind whirring, all neurons firing through the grey matter – but for once all he experienced was the odd yet comfortable association of an average mind trying to assemble only the facts laid before him, and slowly at that. Also, he felt slightly miffed that he was being forced to take Lestrade's words at face value; how could John live like this? Suddenly, just as his imagination was beginning to scrape some kind of idea together, an offhand comment from the Detective Inspector slid Sherlock quickly out of his reverie;

'So, where's His Royal Pain In The Arse got to then? Still measuring toenail discolouration like last time, or has he come up with a better excuse for being lazy? This has got to be at least an eight by his standards.'

It was a seven, actually.

Sherlock had recovered enough to invent a snappy and misleading response to throw Lestrade off the scent (the one thing John's brain appeared to be amazingly fast with was lies), nonetheless the remark lingered. How dare John gossip about him to Lestrade! Sherlock's work was not idle nonsense to appear in tittle tattle, he had assumed that Gregory Lestrade knew that. Nor did Sherlock allow John to take his place on cases so that his blogger could slander him behind his back! Emotions were not an advantage and he had trained his own body to discard them, but John had always seemed to thrive on feelings. Sherlock was receiving as full dose of them now, actually experiencing a sense of discomfort, no wait, _upset,_ that his two most trusted allies talked about him in whispers. Sherlock had not cried since he was six and he didn't intend to start now; however the musculature of John's face had always been unhelpfully animated, hence Sherlock had looked up to find Lestrade gazing in his direction with genuine concern. Fortunately, their swift arrival at the potential murder site warranted a return to business before the Detective could probe further and for this Sherlock had been extremely glad.

In spite of things already being unpleasant for Sherlock, what had occurred whilst he was investigating had ensured that his situation took a turn for the worse. Upon the mangled and bloodied corpses entering his pain of view he had allowed himself a gleeful smile (this looked to be promising), before actually being told off by a lowly uniformed police constable for inappropriateness. Lestrade had gestured for Sherlock to examine the bodies; using John's medical knowledge he deduced that the cause of death for both victims was the severing of the carotid artery (swift but painful), the majority of the other serious wounds had been inflicted after death to remove any trace of identity, and the female had been six weeks pregnant. Oh, and the fact that they were found in such a discrete place suggested that the murder had been well thought out. He could not get anything more than that, and frankly Sherlock was still embarrassed about it. Even if no one generally expected much input from John Watson, the lethargic mind which Sherlock found himself lumbered with should have been able to glean more useful information than he had done. Sherlock had no idea who the victims were, what they did, their hobbies, where they were from; nothing, not even their relationship to the killer or to each other. Suddenly, the mind-silence which had seemed so comforting earlier was now terrifying in his workplace. He was useless. Realising that he had been static for over a minute, Sherlock had scrambled to his feet, grousing at the persistent twinge of pain that he, right now, admired John for putting up with. Maintaining and somewhat believing his cover as the mindless helper, he had fumbled with John's camera phone for a few snapshots of the crime scene. Then Sherlock took one, final cursory look over the bodies and John's gag reflex had kicked in. All over the victims. He cringed at the memory.

John had a stunningly weak stomach for an ex-army surgeon, and the stale draft from an adjacent train tunnel had wafted the stench of decay up Sherlock's new sensitive nostrils. The only consolation was that people did not realise that it was Sherlock Holmes vomiting on a murder enquiry; the humiliation was internal alone. After much infuriating fussing from the female officers, because John seemed to be rather popular in that area, followed by a DNA sample and a severe dressing down from forensics, Sherlock was promptly escorted to the public area in silence; by Anderson, nonetheless. Now he was sulking on the streets outside Saint Pancras like a common, unattractive, middle-aged male prostitute, with one ego-damaging thought on his mind; John was right. Tripping over the coat once again, Sherlock decided then and there that he would not take any more cases until he was ready to relinquish John's body, lest his reputation be tainted once more. It really would be a proper holiday from himself.

As he wandered past the British Library, Sherlock's attention was drawn to the cheap neon yellow-and-red signage of a takeaway restaurant. He had never bothered to remember the name; it was one of those elements of popular culture which he deemed irrelevant to the bigger picture. Now though, he was looking at the restaurant with the dilemma of someone who had just emptied their stomach, and the only question was whether he'd risk it. Sherlock was never hungry per se; he knew the maximum period of time in which the human body could safely go without food (thirty days) and so ate very occasionally, instead favouring fluids which could maintain a high level of brain function. There had been a stage in his early twenties where Mummy had falsely attributed his lack of interest in food to anorexia, thus attempting to lure him into therapy, but Sherlock had quickly put paid to this by eating a full roast dinner and then immediately moving out of the family residence. A new body however demanded a different appetite, and John practically indulged in the life choice of eating. Although, as Sherlock recalled, John had expressed distaste for this particular type of fast food on more than one occasion, instead favouring "healthier" options such as the Vietnamese on Camden High Street whenever they had a case in north London. Still the establishment suited Sherlock's needs at this exact moment and the long-term welfare of this body was not his priority, given that he would admittedly tire of its limitations in the near future. It was also likely that John would be planning some kind of revenge on Sherlock for what the other man would deem to be an unfavourable situation and doing something which John disapproved of would be pre-empting that attack. And so, with a head full of pros, Sherlock impulsively decided to join the human race and go inside for some yellow-and-red food.

Sherlock emerged two hours later, his squat frame beyond stuffed and satisfied, after having consumed half of the menu followed by an impossibly cold dessert known as a McFlurry. He had been served throughout the evening by a vacant, greasy teen who was obviously just there for the money; Sherlock had amused himself by ordering larger and larger quantities of food, trying to gain a reaction from the boy. Fortunately John's credit cards were not already maxed out, as the bill for this was going to be horrendous and Sherlock had memorised the pin number long ago (it took a record of five seconds to crack, and John was a 'one number fits all' kind of man). Thank God that John would have a steep hill to climb before he could use the same trick with Sherlock's money, in this case _actual money_ that belonged to Sherlock. Sherlock had been self-sufficient for a while now, having been cut off from his inheritance since he had announced at his great-grandfather's hundredth birthday party that the man would die in five hours and forty-eight seconds (almost accurate, as stubborn old gentleman decided go a second after Sherlock predicted). Since working with John, Sherlock had steadily been accumulating money from some of the higher profile cases, but then he had an unlucky chance meeting with Mycroft two weeks ago. Sherlock might have insinuated that Mycroft was fat, so an hour later he was unable to access his accounts and had been living on a strictly cash-in-hand basis ever since. He grimaced as he licked his still-frozen McFlurry; Mycroft's name always left a bad taste on the brain.

As if on cue, a black Rolls-Royce slowed and followed Sherlock at a crawling pace as he wandered aimlessly towards the taxi rank back near the main station. Knowing exactly what it was, he sighed audibly and kept walking. It continued to follow Sherlock for another two hundred metres before John's phone received a text.

_Get in the car, Dr Watson._

It wouldn't do to have John fall too far out of Mycroft's favour, not when it was such an easy route of exploitation for Sherlock. Besides, although his guesses often appeared accurate, Sherlock did often wonder what actually happened during these sporadic meetings between his best friend and his brother. Rolling his eyes, he prepared to comply. In response the Rolls-Royce's silent question, he wondered aloud;

'Can I at least bring my ice cream?'

**As you probably know by now, reviews are always appreciated. Kudos to those of you that have left multiple reviews; you are what essentially keeps this story going. Oh, and by the way, the Vietnamese opposite Camden Horse Market is absolutely divine, just saying. There might be a gap between this chapter and the next but I'll do my best to update quickly so that you guys can find out what happens between John and Molly soon. :) MC. xx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Through Your Eyes: Part 6**

John had to admit that he may have pushed himself a little out of his depth here. Sitting in the darkened corner of a Leicester Square nightclub feeling a little drunk and in the company of an extremely tipsy Molly Hooper, it was hard to work out where he had gone wrong. When Molly had found John with two terrified porters (having just arranged, i.e. bullied them into, the delivery of an entire research corpse to Baker Street) their conversation had gone something like;

'Sherlock! I was just off home.'

'No.'

'Sorry?'

'I said no. You are coming with me.'

'Do you need the lab? I've got stuff to do. My cat –'

'Can surely last an hour or two without you. No case; I am taking you for a drink, since I can tell from the black mascara stains on your cheeks that you are clearly upset about something. Please, come out with me for a while.'

'Oh. Okay.' And with a stunned smile she had happily followed John out of the hospital, jogging to keep up with his powerful strides.

The idea had started off as an innocent good intention; buy Molly a drink to say thank you for putting up with Sherlock, as she was arguably one of the detective's most valuable assets and yet the man treated her like shit. However, once they had reached the nice little bar which was around the corner from St Bart's, half a bottle of wine later John had found out just how upset Molly really was and maybe how this wasn't such a good idea after all. Her dad had died about a month back, then her cat went missing (from what she told him, he had coldly deduced that poor Tiddles was also dead), and she apparently had no one to talk to because her mum was holidaying in Spain and the rest of her family were in Kent. As a result, the "couple of hours" which John had been planning to spend chatting to Molly turned into several hours of her literally snivelling on his shoulder. Although he was light-years better at dealing with women than Sherlock, John had never fully understood this part of a relationship and so had been forced to adopt a moderately concerned expression whilst she talked and he nursed his pint. Molly seemed to be grateful for this, forgetting that she was apparently confessing all to Sherlock and actually making herself more comfortable as she leaned against him. The only gleeful element of this depressing scenario was that Sherlock would have to do a lot of explaining later, John having seen at least three people they knew at the bar. Funnily enough though, the only time that Molly had noticed anything remotely off about "Sherlock" was at kicking-out time, when they were leaving the bar.

'Sherlock?' she had giggled, 'Why are you wearing funny clothes?'

'They're not funny.' John had tried to respond with the appropriate amount of ice usually associated with his flat mate.

'No, um, I mean they are nice;' Molly had quickly corrected herself, flushing with visible embarrassment. 'just different.'

'Well, I correctly assumed that what you chose to wear under your lab coat today would be comfortable enough to be appropriate for work, yet casual enough for a Friday afternoon full of running around the morgue hiding the evidence of your mounting workload from your boss.' John had thought he covered himself well, all things considered. 'Hence I adapted my attire to what John would deem socially acceptable for this occasion.' Yup, he had definitely nailed Sherlock's God complex after that second beer.

'Alright then.' Cue another fit of giggles as John had pointed Molly towards the door.

Once the two of them were outside in the sharp, cold night air, John's head had started to spin. Sherlock's body had a painfully obvious lack of tolerance for alcohol and John had been suddenly thrust into the giddy excitement long associated with being a lightweight. This was hardly surprising, as Sherlock rarely drank except only during the most taxing cases, and it had become unfortunately clear to John over the past year that his friend's addictive personality would turn to much harder drugs if Sherlock truly wanted to switch off. Not to mention the man's downright stupid abhorrence of food. Still, a couple of pints of lager had felt like nothing to John's mind; even if he had been aware of the exact time it would take to oxidise one of those pints to ethanal and excrete the waste products from the body. Those stupid racing car thoughts had stopped since he had stepped outside, leaving him with his own drunken personality and the prospect of a cheap night out, the likes of which John had not felt since he was in his first year of medical school. The only thought which had been on his mind since Molly had stopped crying was that he had really needed to pee; easily remedied by telling Molly to wait whilst John dashed back inside and tried not to look.

Somewhere between an off-licence and the tube station Molly had produced, not only the rest of the wine which she had smuggled away from the bar, but a second bottle from her handbag and encouraged John to take a swig. He had obliged readily, and the two of them had decided that it would be a brilliant idea to hit a few clubs in the West End even though they were only wearing jumpers and jeans (Molly had thought it would be funny). Now John was sitting, somewhat dazed, in a sticky corner of Tiger Tiger, watching people much younger than him grind against each other as he waited for Molly to come back from the loo. He had also noticed, amidst the thumping of the club music and the sipping of his fishbowl, that it was a lot easier to pick up women as Sherlock. John had never thought of his friend as attractive (although those cheekbones were something to contend with), yet he was getting everything tonight; from the glaringly obvious once-overs from eighteen year olds wearing barely a napkin, to the sly glances of approval from older women on hen nights. It felt fantastic. Johns tally was up to twenty hits so far, but sadly all the _come hither_ looks seemed to go away every time Molly went to get more shots.

He groaned as he saw Molly staggering back from the ladies, putting down any fleeting thoughts he had about chatting up the latest bridesmaid to peep his way as he waved at his drunken accomplice. John wasn't exactly feeling too great, having misjudged that last round of tequila, but the gentleman in him screamed that Molly wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon and it was dangerous to leave her unguarded. He inhaled deeply as she plonked herself messily down next to him, beaming.

'Are you okay?' John shouted, Sherlock's baritone getting lost somewhere in the bass line of the latest chart hit.

'Sorry?' Molly seemed perplexed, and for equal reasons John was forced to read her lips between strobe lights.

'I said; are you okay? You were in there for ages!'

'Yeah.' Obviously a lie; John had noticed traces of something unpleasant close to the neckline of her itchy woollen jumper. Again, the gentleman in him thought it best to ignore this; more than a little out of character for someone imitating Sherlock Holmes, but John really didn't care by this point. As far as his fuzzy brain was concerned, John was simply an attractive ladies man who was cool enough to be in the building without being laughed at. He offered Molly a sip of his fish bowl in response. She quickly obliged whilst he watched a catfight. However, John soon noticed that Molly's lips were moving again.

'Sherlock? Are you listening? I said I really, really fancy you. Have done for ages.' The slur in Molly's tone was clear.

'Oh.'

John was hardly surprised, but this wasn't the best moment to be trapped inside another man's body. He forced himself to look Molly in the eye; several things became apparent as he did. John noticed the wetness of fresh red lipstick applied by an unsteady hand and smokey eye-makeup which wasn't there before, contrasting to Molly's previously demure look. He noticed the fluttering pulse in her neck and dilated pupils. Her dishevelled hair was hastily arranged in a messy up-do. Combined with the amount of time she had spent in the ladies toilets (15 minutes and 36 seconds, plus travel time) and the amount of Dutch courage she had ingested, all the evidence of a planned ambush was there. John really should have seen this coming. Molly continued her drunken ramble.

'Look I know that you probably don't like me because I'm just invisible to you but I just wanted to tell you okay? I wasn't ever going to tell you except you've been so weirdly nice to me tonight and listened to me and stuff. And seeing as you've been checking out loads of other girls whilst we've been here it's clear that you aren't gay or are at least bisexual and I think you deserve to be with someone who isn't a whore. So here is me telling you that I like you. A lot.' She finally allowed herself a sharp intake of breath and a sip of the fishbowl before finishing nervously. 'So there.'

'Listen, Molly,' John was stunned by the outburst of emotion, snatching away the alcohol from her hands. Any right-thinking man should gently derail this train. 'I think that you are a very nice young woman and I would be lucky to have you but –'

He couldn't get any further because Molly had dived towards him and was now kissing him. Any right thinking man would have pushed her away, firmly telling her no and that this wasn't the best idea for either of them. But John had stopped being completely right thinking with the pleasant surprise of her tongue being in his mouth. Molly was arguably as pretty as any of the other women he had pulled tonight, if not a little mousy when sober. They both put up with a lot of crap from Sherlock and deserved a break; he from being the least snog-worthy man in the room and she getting to live out her fantasy. Because that was what tonight was about, wasn't it; being nice to Molly, cheering her up? And it would stop people from thinking that Sherlock was far too highly strung, because Irene Adler would never count. Finally, all rational and moral thought went out the window as the various alcohols consumed the last of John's brain cells. The two of them were so close that he could smell the alluring stench of her newly applied perfume, taste the sickly alcopop flavours lingering on her tongue. John kissed back.

Yes, he thought as he wrapped his arms around her, he was doing Sherlock a favour.

xxx

John groaned as the dawn sunlight poked its way nosily through the unshielded window. For the second time in as many days, his head felt like thunder; at least this time he knew that it was alcohol. He felt sick and it didn't help that the Encyclopaedia Sherlock had started firing up again either; he now knew why there where so many nicotine patches in the bin at the end of every day, just to shut the damn thing up. He glanced over to the defaced Periodic Table; at least he had made it to a bedroom, unlike the bed's original owner. The flat would never be this quiet if Sherlock had come home from the crime scene, and that was a worrying fact in itself. Had Sherlock bullied John's body as much as John had decimated his flatmate's? Either way, John would need a paracetamol before going on a Sherlock hunt.

There was a snuffling noise beside John. He froze. Someone was in here with him; he remembered attracting a lot of attention last night but didn't recall bringing anyone new home with him. If he was sharing a bed with Sherlock, please God let them both be clothed. Slowly, he rolled onto his left side and found Molly Hooper slumbering peacefully next to him. Naked.

Ah. Panicking, he checked to see if he was also undressed and found that his torso was bare. Oh, bollocks. Steadying himself, John prepared to take the plunge and lifted up his side of the sheet.

'Holy shit!' Molly stirred beside him, her arm reaching out as she rolled over in her sleep.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit! With shaking, short breaths John pulled himself up to lean against the wall, running his hands through tangled long, dark hair. The room felt tainted.

The question of Sherlock's virginity had been resolved and John was in way over his head. As in drowning. Thank God that John was the one with the detective skills.

**So, any thoughts on this? Sherlock and Mycroft are up next, before I put Sherlock and John back in the same room again. Thanks to all those who have reviewed so far. MC. :) xx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Through Your Eyes: Part 7**

Sherlock sulked a little as he was escorted into the lift by his brother's aide. It was bad enough that he had been coerced into coming here, but Anthea, or Keira, or whomever she chose to call herself this week (he had worked out that her real name was Fanny sometime back, but she had obvious issues with it so Sherlock let her play out her delusions) had took one look at his sticky, dripping ice cream and disposed of it via the car window. He had found himself inconvenienced and momentarily heartbroken by the whole affair. Not to mention that, in order to satiate his curiosity, Sherlock would be forced to keep his tongue in check whilst in the company of his disparaging older brother. Hence Sherlock reserved the right to be moody.

The lift pinged happily as it smoothly drifted to a halt on the top floor, revealing Mycroft's garishly medieval taste in interior design. For someone who led the most covert ministry in the entire British government, the man displayed no flare for secrecy; the reason why Sherlock was being bundled into Mycroft's private London residence at twenty-three minutes past midnight, after a ride in the stereotypical government car. Sherlock did point this out to his brother now and again, although he had stopped doing it recently because of the obviously connected droughts in crime that followed, thus proving a peeved Sherlock right. He was directed to sit in a high-backed armchair and told to wait for the self-proclaimed Lord of the Manor. Sherlock had been here before, of course, but always under duress; family meetings were not on the list of his favourite things, and this building had long been associated with Mycroft delivering severe dressing-downs to Sherlock away from the prying eyes of employees. Therefore, though someone posing as John had no reason to, Sherlock was naturally experiencing a familiar sense of discomfort.

'Ah, John. I'm glad you could make it.' Mycroft slithered casually into view, tumbler of scotch in hand.

'You didn't exactly give me a choice.' Sherlock replied smoothly, 'You could always phone first? I have a life you know.'

'Yes, but I thought that we both agreed that this was the best way to keep my brother from being suspicious.' Mycroft smiled warmly, but Sherlock knew the subtext; _do not question my judgement, as I have the means to execute you_. 'Besides, we cannot have our little chats becoming too regular, can we? People might talk.' Mycroft leant over to the decanter on the coffee table. 'Scotch?'

'No, thanks.' Sherlock shook his head politely. All things considered, he thought he was doing pretty well. He had bitten his tongue thus far, but this was mostly because Mycroft hadn't said anything to provoke him, and had been appropriately flippant in his responses. Yet there was still the question of what his brother wanted. Mycroft never brought anyone here without purpose; he dealt with personal affairs here, and business in that damned Diogenes Club. Sherlock's father had taken them to be inducted into the exclusive gentlemen's club on his sixteenth birthday, but within an hour of joining Sherlock had shouted "boo!" in the drawing room and received a lifelong ban. His older brother had decided, since that day, to utilise his own membership to discuss things which he didn't want Sherlock to know about. Predictably Mycroft cut straight to the chase; Sherlock struggled to resist an eye-roll.

'Then I assume that you are still full from your substantial meal. Shall we get to the order of business? It is rather late and I have discussions of great importance in the morning. The situation in Syria is dire and what our man found was frankly disturbing…' Mycroft trailed off as he noticed Sherlock nodding inquisitively. 'Anyway, you need not concern yourself with such matters. What has my brother told you about our family?'

Sherlock instantly knew where this was going; whenever the words "our family" were utilised, he instinctively knew to run a mile and possibly consider working abroad for a month. Nevertheless, he decided to side with caution and play along. Whilst a large portion of Mycroft's brain was entirely devoted to politics and deceit, the analytical aspect of his mind was easily capable of matching Sherlock's own abilities. If anyone was going to notice a momentary slip in character, it was his brother; a white lie was in order.

'Seriously? Nothing. He never tells me anything anyway, even when we are on a case. He just assumes I know everything.' Sherlock saw reason to think that this would be partially true from John's perspective; the man whined about the fact that he wasn't psychic almost daily. Besides, Sherlock saw no reason to talk about personal affairs unless it was to bemoan their interference with his lifestyle. The fat, middle-aged, pompous schemer sitting opposite him was a testament to that.

'I am not at all surprised. Sherlock was hardly forthcoming about my existence, was he?' Mycroft purred, 'He was always a very private person; as a toddler he would excuse himself to our father's study rather than alert the rest of the family that he needed to relieve himself. Our parents found it adorable, but I saw the situation's transparency. Sherlock simply thought the topic too mundane to raise.'

'At least I didn't hire out a prostitute just to get Father's attention, and then fail miserably anyway.' Sherlock mumbled in response, his fingers curling in embarrassment; Mycroft was always so malicious when it came to anecdotes. He looked up just in time to see his elder brother's eyes narrow.

'I beg your pardon? I did not quite catch that.'

Sherlock cleared his throat. 'I said; I didn't really need to know that thanks. So, what's this about anyway?' Mycroft clearly thought that this was a reasonable response, but his customary pointed gaze lingered and added to Sherlock's discontent at not being able to fully sink his claws into him.

'I have a conundrum, in a manner of speaking, which I require your aid with.'

'Go on.'

'It is my mother's eightieth birthday two days from the present. Whilst none of us are ecstatic about her age or the frailty which sides with it, there is an obligation to celebrate the milestone. The guests are gathering at our family home in Oxford. It is expected that Sherlock will be there.'

Expected, was it? Sherlock hated parties, and Mycroft knew it; he had found that small gathering which Mrs Hudson had insisted on this past Christmas practically torturous. An event solely filled with his relations and his parents' doddery old acquaintances promised even more tedium. Not that he needed any more excuses to remain in another man's body, but this revelation would definitely prolong Sherlock's excursion. Mummy would understand; she should be used to it by now.

'So you want me to be your messenger? What makes you sure that he'll listen to me? We've tried this before and you know that it doesn't work.'

'No, not a messenger; I am well aware of Sherlock's blatant disregard for my concerns. I'd rather, as a preference, that you assist me as a delivery boy. This will require your attendance at the event in order for you to be successful, and you will need to coerce him into buying an appropriate present. I have cleared your diary for the day in question to ensure that this is possible.'

Sherlock was not quite aware of what the last statement implied (he never paid attention to the boring aspects of John's life), but he could tell from experience that Mycroft was attempting to box "John" in. This was probably why his flatmate, being of weaker resolve than Sherlock, caved in to so many of his brother's demands. He could see an easy way out of this, but Sherlock had no intention of attending in either guise and subjecting John to the mercy of the Holmes family was borderline cruel. No friendship was worth risking for something so trivially selfish, so Sherlock rose to leave, resuming his defensive stance.

'I can't make Sherlock do anything that he doesn't want to, Mycroft. Nor am I inclined to try because, funnily enough, I am not your whipping boy. Just for once, why don't you actually try talking to your little brother yourself, so that he can tell you to fuck off personally! Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find myself a dessert, because your PA stole my previous one.'

Sherlock thought that he had mirrored an irate John perfectly. He turned to leave, but before he could break into a stride he found Mycroft firmly gripping his wrist. Sherlock turned back to face his brother, registering the cold determination which was emanating from Mycroft's body. He hated being touched, least of all being manhandled by his sibling.

'Get off of me, Mycroft!'

'Whilst I sympathise with the nobility of your objections, John, I do not think that you quite understand the magnitude of the situation. It is imperative that Sherlock attends, whether in your company or not.' Mycroft was actually imploring him; this was new. 'Whilst he may be content to keep up his dispassionate persona, some of us feel otherwise. I for one am keen to maintain the illusion that Sherlock cares about the woman who raised him.'

It took less than half a heartbeat for Sherlock to realise the meaning behind this insinuation. He subsequently raised his fist and punched Mycroft squarely on the nose. Sherlock strode briskly over to the lift, pausing to take in the satisfying sight of four security personnel rushing towards his cowering and bleeding brother.

'Goodnight, Mycroft.' He spat as the doors closed.

Anthea dropped Sherlock off somewhere near Oxford Street, after spending the entire journey treating him like a juvenile delinquent. It was miles away from Baker Street and he could not be bothered to find a cash machine for the cab. The tube station opened at 4AM; he would have to wait the time out in one of Oxford Circus's finest fast food joints. An upset Sherlock was just about to discover the joys of comfort eating when John's phone vibrated. Sherlock answered reluctantly, beginning to think that the thing was cursed.

'What?!' He snapped.

'Don't you "what" me, John Watson!' A shrill voice roared back at him. 'What the hell is wrong with you? I finally get back from my nightshift and find a message from _your sister_ saying that you can't be bothered to see me tomorrow!'

Sherlock sighed audibly, earning himself more screeching down the line. Was this really how dull other people's lives were? He was seriously hoping that his night would not get any worse.

**So what do you think of the brotherly love? Apologies for the gap between updates; my laptop broke, but now full service has been resumed. Please review. MC. :) xx**


	8. Chapter 8

**Through Your Eyes: Part 8**

John froze as he heard the front door click shut. Sherlock. He quickly scanned his surroundings with analytical eyes; the one positive about being trapped in Sherlock's body right now was the eidetic memory. After an hour of hiding the evidence, nothing in the bedroom was out of place if John didn't want it to be. A mortified yet secretly pleased Molly had been got rid of with a few coldly worded answers and a 'we'll talk later'. He had even burnt the bed sheets. Sherlock wouldn't have to know a thing until this was over. He scrambled to his feet, lurching with hung-over dizziness, and had just about made it to his armchair when Sherlock traipsed into the sitting room. His nervous brain made a bid to distract him; was that how John really walked?

Shaking away any vain notions, John raked his gaze over his friend, who had flopped himself messily on the sofa. Sherlock was still wearing last night's clothing, now stained with something that looked like chip oil, although John wasn't one to talk; he hadn't been able to find anything else "normal" in to wardrobe, so had resorted to reusing his previously foraged get-up and was just about tolerating the guilty aroma of Marc Jacobs perfume. Sherlock was also wearing a dark-ringed expression which John recognised from the mirror; he hadn't slept. Whilst this fact wasn't alarming in itself, it meant that Sherlock had been on an adventure which John's body clock wasn't used to. Hypocritically, John prayed that it wasn't anything sordid.

'How was the case?' He asked hesitantly.

'What case?' Sherlock snapped back. 'It was child's play. Hardly worth my time.' A blatant lie if ever there was one. John could tell from the subtle crease in the forehead and the willingness of the response that it had been a seven. It was brilliant that John could finally work out what his flatmate was thinking, yet more than slightly worrying that John's body was so easy to read. Still, if Sherlock was embarrassed enough to conceal something, John wouldn't pry. Too much.

'You couldn't solve it could you? I told you that you wouldn't.' John teased.

'Shut up John! Of course I solved it!' Sherlock's back was arched defensively, like a cat in a corner. 'Anyway,' He gestured in John's general direction. 'what is _that_?'

'Oh, this?' John tugged at the t-shirt emphatically. 'I found it in your wardrobe.'

'My _what_?' Sherlock had sat up, back straight and was obviously horrified.

'Well, you did say not to ruin any more suits.'

'You had no right.'

'Actually, right now I do, since you decided to blow up most of my possessions!' John flared up, finally getting the chance to at least put some of his cards on the table. 'And I found some pretty interesting things whilst I was in there.' He picked up a fistful of hypodermics from the table near the window, waving them at Sherlock. 'What the hell are these?'

'Ah.' Sherlock had the decency to look sheepish. 'John, it's not what you th –'

'Seriously, what the fuck do you think you are playing at Sherlock?!' John cut across him. 'You told me you were clean!'

'John, I –'

'No, _I'm_ talking for a change! You swore to me that you weren't taking anything! On your mother's life. Now I know you don't set much stock by human life, but I thought that you at least had the decency not to lie –'

'JOHN!' Sherlock bellowed. 'It was for an experiment!'

'For what?' The excuse seemed pathetic, but John could tell from the emotion behind the words that it was true.

'A man's alibi was dependent on the reaction of a particular complex with haemoglobin; as my usual supply line has been unfairly cut off, I thought it prudent to use my own blood. Yes, those needles once had another purpose, but as I have told both you and the Metropolitan Police countless times since moving into Baker Street, I am clean.' Sherlock stood up, tilting his head to look John defiantly in the eyes. 'Oh, and since we are on the subject of my faults, I do not appreciate you bitching about me to Lestrade like a common school girl! That's right; I said "bitching", thus disproving your belief that I am too aloof to indulge in the same language as the rest of humanity!'

It was John's turn to feel slightly ashamed. Hearing Sherlock use _feelings_ to turn the tables on him was like watching a snowman turn into chocolate; somewhat shocking and seriously unlikely to happen. But here it was for all to see.

'Sherlock, I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that there are not that many people I can talk to about what we do.'

'Oh, so you meant to gossip about me in a nice way?' Sherlock sulked, and John hoped to God that he would never see himself pout that way again. 'Like when you announced to the entire world how "ignorant" I was? What was it this time; something about me being "an ice-cold, Class A twat"? I can't remember the exact phrasing Lestrade used, because your pathetic, stupid little mind doesn't have the capacity to quote things verbatim! Other than, for some reason, every other word from the song Skyfall, as you apparently cannot see how irrelevant that is and something is stopping me from deleting it.'

Sherlock looked as if he was going to cry; this may have been the missing piece which John had been too polite to deduce. It had definitely been upsetting Sherlock for the entire night; though it was obvious he had supressed any emotion until now. John didn't think he'd know what to do if the snowman melted, or that he would even be allowed to clean up the mess that would follow. The best course of action, John concluded, was to distract Sherlock from this train of thought; he hated himself for being forced to think in such a calculating way.

'Well, give my brain back to me then. Some of us quite happily tolerate irrelevant but good music.'

Sherlock apparently chose to ignore this comment, instead raising a topic which made John lose most of his regard for the other man's newfound feelings.

'Your girlfriend called your phone, by the way; Jayne, Janice, whatever.' Sherlock uttered coldly. 'We had a conversation in which she became increasingly uncivilised. It ended with her refusing to attend your date on Friday, which frankly was useful to me in terms of removing petty social etiquette as I had no intention of turning up anyway.'

Oh shit! Not only had John technically cheated on Sonia and gotten away with it, but it sounded as if Sherlock had cocked up John's only almost long-term relationship since returning from Afghanistan. When John next spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

'What exactly did Sonia say to you, Sherlock?'

'Well, as I pointed out less than a minute ago, your body is severely lacking in short term memory. But I believe that it was along the lines of "you are the shittiest boyfriend ever; go marry your flatmate you selfish bastard!".'

Okay that was bad, even if John had heard worse break-up speeches. He needed to fix things and save his one functioning relationship, fast.

'Sherlock,' He said testily, 'as I have already told you repeatedly in the last twenty-four hours, change us back now. Please; I need to make sure that I still have a girlfriend.'

'No. She was an unnecessary distraction. I need my blogger to be focused on our work.'

'Fine, you arrogant prick!' John blurted out. 'I wasn't going to tell you this because some of us still have a sense of common decency, but I slept with Molly Hooper last night. And by "slept" I mean had I sex with her. And I have absolutely no idea whether or not we used a condom, because _somebody_ can't handle his drink!' This was an outright lie; he had found the soiled condom in his bedroom purge, and it had gone the same way as the linen. John really didn't care how much this could damage his friend at the moment. He was desperate. Letting his dirty little secret slip was just a side-effect of the panicking. 'So if you don't want to see people thinking that you are playing Happy Families with Molly, because I swear I will make them believe it, you had better give me back what's mine right now!'

Sherlock had remained silent throughout John's tirade, as if digesting the magnitude of the words. You could cut the tension in the room with a laser. As he finished speaking, John swore he caught a glint of something terrifying travel across the other man's eyes. Then he watched as, still in silence, Sherlock pivoted on the spot before storming into his room. The stillness was only temporarily lifted when Sherlock yelled at him a beat later.

'John! What In Hell's name have you done to my bedroom!'

The question was clearly rhetorical, because a second later Sherlock slammed the door. It would have been funny had the situation not been so serious.

xxx

Eyes closed and chest heaving, Sherlock rested his forehead against his bedroom door, feeling the flat reverberate around him. The very idea that John could allow Sherlock's body, his proverbial temple, to be violated in such a clumsy and prehistoric act had left him seething. All Sherlock wanted was a few days of peace, free from addictions and systems and a constant need to be occupied; and he hadn't even meant for it to happen! The switch had purely been an accident, likely caused by the use of an incorrect solvent near a scorching hotplate, but Sherlock had been happy to let the events play out in a new experiment. There had been no need for John to sink to such depraved levels of blackmail! And Molly would be insufferable; it was guaranteed that she would reach new heights of useless, unproductive simpering. She would be unbearable to work with!

Sherlock stomped over to the only untouched object in the room, his violin, and managed to pick it up without having to swoop down too far. The instrument screeched in protest against John's short neck and pudgy, uncooperative fingers. It was soon cast aside, exiled in anger to the bed with the bow flung further afield. Sherlock perched on the edge of the mattress, tense. Any reasonable human being would take this experience on the chin, concede defeat and resolve the situation before it got too out of hand. Sherlock however, and he freely admitted this to himself, was not reasonable. Logic-driven, yes, but the only two men next to whom he would seem rational were either the Devil himself or currently off the grid. No, Sherlock would not be conceding defeat. He pulled out John's phone from the jeans pocket and began texting his brother.

_Have changed mind. Feel free to abduct Sherlock at your leisure. John._

The reply was almost instant.

_Very good. Send him out tomorrow. 9AM sharp. M._

There; John could try that on for size. As he clearly thought that Sherlock was intolerable at times, John should sample a whole house full of Sherlock's relatives. Who said that revenge was a dish best served cold?

**Yes, I know that this chapter is a bit filler-like, but I was in the mood for an argument. Reviews are always welcome. :) MC. xx**


	9. Chapter 9

**Through Your Eyes: Part 9**

John hadn't seen Sherlock for almost an entire day since the argument. He made use of the silence in the flat to act as much like himself as physically possible, in a frankly dismal effort to drown out the scheming noises in his head. He tried leaving pleading messages on Sonia's voicemail, before a hyperactive brain loudly announced that John was making the situation worse and that his girlfriend was more likely to be freaked out by the sound of Sherlock Holmes proclaiming his love for her down the line, so the whole endeavour was pointless anyway. He tried going for a walk, but became sick of subconsciously reading strangers, and watching Jeremy Kyle proved to be more irritating than usual. As a last resort, John was forced to start clearing the debris from the wreckage of his bedroom; he was just ordering new furniture online when the pangs of guilt settled in. It wasn't as though he argued with his best friend on a daily basis, contrary to what the inhabitants of Scotland Yard believed. What's more, John was starting to empathise with Sherlock.

Yes he was still angry, seething even, but it was a kind of mild torture being lumbered with a brilliant mind and having nothing of interest to apply it to. Lestrade hadn't issued any more summonings, so there was either clearly something wrong in that department or the criminals of London had decided to be achingly transparent in their wrongdoings. Also there was the fact that Sherlock probably hadn't meant to be, well, _Sherlock_. Whereas John had knowingly let an unstable situation run its course, hence the massive lump of angry guilt squatting in the pit of his stomach. The worst thing was that he was actually scolding himself for believing he was at fault. This was scary to say the least. One of Sherlock's most insufferable traits was his headstrong belief of infallibility, and something told John that he might start adopting more of Sherlock's personality if the switch was maintained for too long. A short excursion into body swapping wasn't on the top of his to-do list, but a slow transformation into the world's most annoying consulting detective meant that the forces above were really taking the piss. John wondered if Sherlock was aware of this yet; the "trauma" of becoming permanently ordinary would be sure-fire way to restore normality in ten seconds flat. He spent the rest of the day and night reaffirming his John-ness through watching consecutive 007 films in a salvaged sleeping bag.

The next morning, John managed to stare disdainfully at a piece of toast whilst not entirely comprehending why he didn't want to eat it. He had stumbled out of the sleeping bag after barely an hour's sleep, gangly limbs aching after a night on the wooden floor but completely alert. The sound of running water tinkled through the flat, notifying John of Sherlock's occupation of the shower. John took advantage of the situation, abandoning his appalling attempt at nourishment in favour of stealing more clothes from Sherlock's wardrobe, as the ones which he was currently wearing would soon be walking about by themselves if they weren't washed. He resurfaced sometime later, having picked out the least obnoxious suit he could find and vowing to buy something which involved a cardigan if this continued for much longer. John drifted into the living room, only to find himself affronted by the sight of Sherlock wearing nothing but a very damp sheet. He was practically flaunting John's manhood to boot.

'Jesus, Sherlock! Ever heard of modesty? That's my body you're exposing!'

Sherlock gave him a look that was a cross between knowingness and outright disgust. A guilty John decided to shut up before he became an even filthier hypocrite. He awkwardly thumbed an outdated newspaper whilst idly wondering how he would get round the problem of needing to be at the surgery this afternoon. The only sounds in the room were the rustling of the tabloid and the scrunching of fabric as Sherlock curled up on the sofa, assuming the position of an irate porcupine. John jumped in surprise when Sherlock finally deigned to speak, his voice slicing through the air.

'John, we are out of milk.' Well, that sounded almost normal. At least he wasn't giving him the silent treatment.

'Get it yourself.'

There was _the look_ again. Something told John that this would become a permanent guilt-trip; Sherlock could always manipulate him to his own advantage.

'Fine.' John sighed, 'At least give me my card. I'd rather not use yours.'

Sherlock flicked his eyes approvingly over John's appearance, taking in the choice of suit, before flinging John's wallet across the room. John fumbled to catch it.

'Thanks; I'll be back in ten minutes, six and a half if the Spar on North Gower Street is open. _Please_ put some clothes on.'

He received no response to his request, so John grabbed Sherlock's coat and made for the front door. He was barely a hundred metres down the street when someone grabbed him from behind. John tried to struggle, but Sherlock's build wasn't muscular enough to shake the assailant off, much less turn the attack on its head. John felt a needle enter his bicep and the world went dark.

He awoke sometime later on the M4, whizzing past fields and greenery at 80 miles an hour. Somewhere near Windsor, judging by the fleeting glimpse of castle through the hedgerows. John was slumped on the passenger seat in a small puddle of drool, from which he sluggishly corrected his posture. Bleary eyes registered the surrounding vehicle as familiar, albeit sans Anthea. John's brain rapidly caught up with his body. Clearly some sort of deal had been cut in the small hours of the night, at a meeting which John obviously was supposed to have been present at. The manner in which he had been bundled into the car definitely said something about who its intended occupant was. Thanks Mycroft, John thought sardonically as he rubbed his stinging arm; what a great way to treat your little brother. He fumbled with the phone in his top pocket, stabbing at the touch-screen keys in frustration. After every message was a predictably instant reply.

_What the Hell is going on?!_

_I see Mycroft only used the short-term serum this time. Fair warning, the side-effects involve the opposite end to vomiting. Temporary though. SH._

_Sherlock!_

_My relations are hosting a party for my Mother. I refuse to attend, and Mycroft took exception to this. You solve the problem. SH._

_What if I don't want to go? Which I DON'T, by the way!_

_As you would say; tough shit. SH._

_You arsehole! Call this off now!_

_I don't think so. SH._

_Am glad you saw enough sense to wear a suit, by the way. SH._

_Sherlock! Please! I don't know anyone but Mycroft! You never talk about your family. How do you expect me to maintain a cover without any info? _

_I refer to my earlier statement. Tough shit. You owe me. SH._

John abandoned the smartphone with a weary sigh. Admittedly he might have deserved this, yet he couldn't help but think that the acquisition of feelings had resulted in Sherlock reaching new levels of cruelty. This afternoon would be one of pure hellishness; trying to maintain a narcissistic personality in front of the very people who knew Sherlock the best, including his mother and Mycroft, whilst having to calculate the life history of everyone in the room from scratch. And that would be just in order to make conversation. A headache was forming at the very prospect. Mycroft would have intimate knowledge of the venue, not to mention cameras everywhere. Judging by the distance already travelled from the capital, their final destination would be remote and easy to get lost in. Should John manage to break the bullet-proof glass and make it out of the car alive, the characteristic bustle of the M4 would leave him exposed to all manner of problems. John literally had no means of escape.

Resigned glumly to his fate, John sank back into his seat and watched the world go by. He had noticed the bloodied carcass of a fox a mile back and was genuinely wishing that he was in its place. At least being road-kill had its perks. Anything had to be better than an audience with the Holmes Family.

**So, this chapter is a bit shorter than I initially planned but this seemed like a good place to stop. I'm going to split John's ordeal into 2/3 parts so that Sherlock can start having some fun. I am still accepting requests for what you want him to do, by the way, and now also ideas on how I can glam the synopsis up a bit (I think it's boring). Reviews are adored. :) MC. xx**


	10. Chapter 10

**Through Your Eyes: Part 10**

As soon as John was out of the building, Sherlock leapt into action. Discarding the sheet and noting with inexplicable pride that his own bodily proportions were somewhat bigger than John's, he strode butt naked towards his bedroom. He needed to find some clothes before he could go out, obviously; whilst getting John arrested for streaking did seem like an appealing idea, Sherlock was far too familiar with being trapped in a holding cell for his liking. Naturally it would have seemed more logical to search for clothing in John's room, yet Sherlock knew that the articles which had not been damaged or incinerated would be old and hideous. Anything which John still owned would be much like the disgusting grey-and-brown affair that Sherlock had been occupying for the last two days. He would have done something about it before, but Sherlock hadn't been bored enough to notice; the first day had been filled with all sorts of horrors and most of the second had gone missing in a period of impromptu hibernation. Now that he was bored, however, it was time for decisive action.

Sherlock selected one of his own shirts and slipped it on, the fabric gently brushing against his skin. It was tight across the back and, when he attempted to fasten it, one of the buttons shot off into the distance. Sherlock groaned in disgust as he prodded at an emerging beer-belly; for a well-groomed man who was allegedly fit and in the prime of his life, John was really slipping. Although Sherlock's stunt with the takeaway ice cream probably had not helped. After several more attempts at regaining his vanity, Sherlock discovered that he couldn't even use his own underwear. Resigned to temporary failure, he fished the grey-and-brown monstrosity out of the laundry basket and yelled for Mrs Hudson. When the housekeeping landlady didn't reply, Sherlock dressed himself anyway, praying that he did not look too much like a tramp. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't work the washing machine. Sherlock snatched up John's credit card, thankful that pickpocketing was not restricted to the mind, took one disparaging look at John's coat and hurried outside to hail a cab.

Forty minutes later, he found himself in Piccadilly, in a small tailor shop opposite Fortnum and Mason's. Sherlock had tried to shop in Fortnum and Mason's itself, but had been booted out for "inappropriately fondling" a top hat. This was a shame really (Sherlock had always wanted a top hat, but they never suited him) as a hat would have dramatically improved his dishevelled appearance, but his eviction was probably for the best; the shop assistant seemed to have taken offence at John's aged and gnarled trainers more than anything else. Sherlock would have to do something about that later, and then perhaps purchase a trilby. Returning to the present, he was not having too much luck in this establishment either. It wasn't as though Sherlock could stroll into his normal tailor's; the one who knew his exact measurements and had known him long enough not to keep him waiting. No, whilst his brother would be mostly occupied today with having his head planted firmly between a range of family buttocks, Sherlock could be certain that Mycroft's minions would keep up the perverse surveillance which surrounded the inhabitants of 221B. John's visiting of a Saville Row tailor would only arouse suspicion. Admittedly this place was not much of an inconspicuous improvement, but Sherlock was trying desperately to not care about technicalities for once in his life; after five minutes in here he had barked enough orders to make the frail old shopkeeper completely submissive to his will. Sherlock was completely content with this arrangement, and was currently pacing around a spacious changing room in about five hundred pounds worth of black suit. He looked like a laid-back funeral director.

'Is everything to Sir's liking?'

'No, obviously not or I would have paid by now!' Sherlock snapped, wincing at how his vocal chords had attained the pitch of a wounded Chihuahua. 'Bring me the blue D&G, now. And find me some shoes whilst you're at it!'

'Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.' The timid man squeaked back.

Sherlock slouched in the rickety fitting room chair, thumbing the trouser button open as he prepared to wait. He had found some sort of personality Eden, and was finally begging to enjoy himself in full; a large dollop of indecisiveness without relinquishing control. A phone buzzed in some far-off dirty pocket; Sherlock shuffled towards it, swiftly answering each text with trousers lazily pooled around his ankles. He allowed himself a Cheshire-cat smile as he assumed his formed position, imagining a John reeking of desperation whilst being hounded by hundreds of Sherlock's despicable relatives. There was a knock at the door, and Sherlock made to answer it, carving his way through expensive castoffs, stripping as he went. Arthritic hands were practically ripped off as Sherlock snatched items of clothing from them. After six more changes and a tantrum involving a pair of snakeskin shoes, Sherlock emerged wearing the blue suit and a slim-line tie, paid, and was sent on his way by the now sobbing shopkeeper.

Sherlock shoved John's old clothing unceremoniously into a bin and headed away from Piccadilly in search of a shopping centre, but not before he had bought himself a new Rolex and a gilt walking cane. By the time he had reached the shopping centre, Sherlock was fully intent on maxing out John's credit card. He had now stumbled across Primark and was debating the merits of going inside. Sherlock would never be caught dead in there; it was one of those places which Mummy had scoffed at as being cheap, common, and filled to the brim with feral women. He had learnt to avoid the chain for the sake of his wellbeing. But if Sherlock hadn't been inside, how would he know what lay within? And nobody would wheel out the family sniper if _Dr John Watson_ shopped there, now would they? Obviously, that ended the debate and so Sherlock trotted happily into the store. He immediately spotted an ideal trilby hat, noted the reasonable price, and deposited ten into his shopping basket. He also managed to find several aptly named "Holmes Hats" (Sherlock groaned inwardly) dotted around on displays, a piece of string that was apparently classed as a male thong, and new cushions for the flat (the last ones had met a bitter end). Everything in the place stank of nylon, shiny plastic, and polyester, although Sherlock could not remember why nylon had a particular smell. He could tell what was in fashion by the similarities of the piles of printed t-shirts to the garments found on murder victims in the last month. Sherlock was just puzzling over a faux Family Guy vest top when he answered the phone again. Had he known that John had this much of a life outside of their cases, Sherlock would have put a stop to it all long ago, and now planned on selfishly forcing John to devote himself entirely to the work.

'Hello?'

'John! I'm so glad that I could reach you – I tried twice already, but you didn't answer.' It was Sarah; the doctor ex. Why would she be calling? 'Listen, you're late and Dr Taylor is going crazy.'

'Late for what?' Sherlock was puzzled; from what little he knew about relationships, he had gathered that it was wildly unacceptable to rekindle one's old amore whilst currently seeing someone else.

'For surgery! I've got a backlog of patients who will start demanding blood if they don't see a doctor; literally, because one is anaemic. Now I get that you probably forgot because you are really busy on cases for Sherlock, but Dr Taylor doesn't see it the same way we do. I can only take on so many of your patients a day and I think that she is going to sack you if you are not careful. Please hurry up.'

'Fine; I'll be with you in an hour.' Sherlock vaguely remembered John wittering on about patients every Thursday. He would help Sarah as she was the only one of John's girlfriends who had proved useful to Sherlock; her kidnapping had practically solved that financial case. Besides, it would be a waste if this medical knowledge was not put to good use. He idly moved towards the checkouts, considering picking up a waffle before heading back into the city centre.

'Thanks.' The call cut out with a low, extended beep.

Already bored of the ridiculously long queue, Sherlock cut across to the front, ignoring the outraged noises which were emitted from fellow shoppers. The matronly checkout assistant attempted to argue in their favour until Sherlock put her in her place with a few choice curt words. She did serve him, but not fast enough; he told her so. The store security personnel arrived seconds later, when Sherlock was promptly informed that he looked like Peter Stringfellow and escorted out of the premises. It was amazing how his new brain had managed to gloss over all but the major details of what had happened in the last five minutes, yet all in all it had been a successful shopping trip. Sherlock discovered that he was in a remarkably good mood, and sauntered off to select his waffle.

**Yes, I am sanctioning Sherlock's unholy love affair with junk food and Primark, because he really deserves some fun by this point. And soon he shall also be very rude to some patients, but only after we flick back to John (the next chapter is fab, honest). Please review. :) MC. xx**


	11. Chapter 11

**Through Your Eyes: Part 11**

Well, this was uncomfortable. John had never been one for parties. He was far from being on par with Sherlock, but had always been that awkward kid in the corner at high school functions. It was the same when he had discovered clubbing at university; his mates had always left him with their drinks, in acknowledgement that John would never dance. John's habitation of party outskirts had continued ever since. Trouble was, he was fighting for corner space at this particular get-together; typical of any fantasy of the Holmes Family that he had come up with on the way to the house, nobody particularly wanted to be here and so huddled in antisocial packs. More understandably, neither did anybody want to be near _him_, repelling John with borderline hateful glares. And so he was left stranded in the middle of the room like some bizarre centrepiece who was also serving as a magnet for doddery old ladies. John was currently engaged in a painful conversation with someone, who he assumed was a great-aunt, whom had mistaken "Sherlock" for her grandson. All attempts to dissolution the poor woman had failed thus far, largely due to the fact that she wouldn't stop talking.

'Promise me, Horatio, that you will immediately cease your indecent relations with that horrid young man. It's unnatural.'

'I'm not gay.' John hadn't meant to engage her; those three words had become a worrying reflex. He watched as the elderly lady continued to ignore him, instead fixing him with a steely expression not uncommon to Sherlock on a case. It must run in the family.

'This is killing your mother, you know. Her illness will only worsen unless you settle down with a nice young woman. Why, in my day such carryings on were unheard of; now, your grandfather and I, we have our fun, but we are _married_. Our intercourse was respectable and proper –.'

Oh sweet Jesus; John really did not need detailed descriptions of a silver sex life. His head darted around, looking for an escape. Screw the old lady's feelings, being as there was no polite way to do this. He was supposed to be Sherlock, after all.

'For the last time; I am _not_ your grandson!' John strained to keep his voice level, and received a few more pointed looks for his trouble; these people had bat-like hearing. 'Now kindly go and engorge yourself at the buffet table, you interfering old bat. Clearly your husband hasn't satisfied you in over a month, and so you have been taking it out on your waistline. Which, by the way is more likely to lessen your appeal to him than achieve anything else.'

John was far from proud of himself, but the outburst worked because she stopped witting on about old codger rodgering. The great-aunt peered at him again through cataract ridden eyes.

'Ah, Sherlock. Forgive me; you and Horatio look so much alike.'

'Hardly.' John scoffed theatrically as he slunk away. 'Whilst the same DNA combinations exist to a certain extent between family members, the fact that poor Horatio and I are cousins means that this would be a relatively minor occurrence. Ergo, we do not appear to be "so much alike".' He kept walking, eyes fixed on the bar.

'Of course you should find yourself a girl too.' She called to John's back, 'I don't like the sounds of this mysterious common doctor whom Mycroft tells me you keep in your apartment.'

John closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, but kept walking. To retaliate would risk exposing him as a fake in front of all these people, which really was a terrifying prospect. From what information John had gathered so far, a third of the Holmes pack would be content to adopt him as a tame version of Sherlock, a quarter would feed him to the hounds, and the rest would quite happily dissect him. So, yeah, he was going to keep walking. He ordered a scotch at the bar, noting how the counter became magically devoid of people as soon as he entered the area. John perched on a bar stool, taking full advantage of the fact that his feet could touch the ground for a change.

From where he was seated, John had a prime view of the entire hall, in all of its oak panelled glory. This was clearly part of the Holmes estate, if the family portrait above the massive marble fireplace was anything to judge by. The whole place gave off an air of Victorian manor chic, and to be honest John was a bit miffed by the scale of it all. His childhood home had been a two bedroom council flat in Peckham, which he had shared with both of his parents and sister. Sherlock occasionally looked down his nose at his own family home; frankly, John couldn't see was the man was whinging about. Given that the other objects in the room were high-backed leather bear-claw chairs and creepy stuffed animals, John ultimately was forced to survey the portrait again. It was an oil painting rather than a more generic photograph of the modern age and it suited the antiqueness of the venue perfectly, right down to the cold eyes which followed you around the room. The elder figures were clearly Sherlock's parents, all serious and proper, but knowing the Holmes brothers as he did it was quite weird to see them as kids. Elements of John's Sherlock were there, right down to the prominent cheekbones, but the painter had captured an innocence which was hard to imagine being there now. Mycroft was unchanged and stern; unsurprisingly it was his eyes which followed you the most.

'Sherlock, m'boy! Sit down!'

The booming voice seemed to resonate around the room, startling John into scanning the area. A hand was beckoning him from the top of one of those ridiculous armchairs. John walked towards it, uncertain. The ruddy face of a balding late-middle-aged gentleman appeared from around the corner of the chair, hailing him.

'That's it, m'boy! Come and talk to your Uncle Felix. It feels like I haven't seen you in a century!'

John sat down awkwardly on a pouf next to the man, folding his gangly limbs in an attempt to ease the discomfort of being lumbered with a seat meant for primary school children. Whether a real uncle or not, Felix seemed to have known Sherlock for a long time. John would have to play this one carefully; whilst it was clear already that the man bore no resentment to his nephew, John had no idea how close their relationship was, because Sherlock was being a bastard and had withheld all information. It was just one of the many reasons why John wasn't enjoying himself at all. He settled in for another inevitable interrogation.

'Felix.' John offered his hand, which Felix promptly batted away in favour of a crushing hug that went straight to the ribs.

'Sherlock,' the man chided as he finally pulled back. 'I thought I'd stopped you from doing that sort of thing by the time you were six. Now, tell me how that little detective project of yours is going; I hear that you are making great waves! And do call me Uncle Felix; you know how much I enjoy it.'

'It's not a project, Uncle Felix.' A minute in and this man was already give John goose-bumps. He imagined how funny it would be to watch the real Sherlock endure someone calling their work a "project". John fought to supress a smile.

'It is if you don't get paid. Remember, you can only access the contents of my will when I am dead.' Felix emitted a throaty chuckle, smacking a hand upon the top of John's thigh and resting it there with an iron grip.

'Actually, I do get paid for some of the higher profile cases. And I've got people working alongside me.'

'Oh, yes! That doctor fellow Flora told me about. I'm not going to have to take my rifle to him, am I?'

'No.' John tried not to sound too worried. Just how crazy were this family?

'Pity. My aim is still sharp, as you well know. Your father and I used to love a good hunt. It's such a great shame that he cannot be here to celebrate this great feat of your Mother's.'

John didn't know what to say to this, so just nodded.

'Whatever's the matter with you boy? Last time we met, you were full of life and now you are practically mute! Aren't you even going to ask me how my Arctic expedition went?'

'Sorry, Felix. I mean, Uncle Felix.' John's composure was rapidly unravelling. 'How was the –?'

'You have forgotten haven't you? Now, I know that it was ten years ago, but my Sherlock could remember every moment from the day he was born. Whereas you, m'boy, clearly need to start seeing a shrink again. You –.'

'Felix, how _are_ you?'

Felix didn't get to finish his order. Mycroft was gliding towards them with the beaming smile commonly found on the faces of professionals at self-betterment; like a shark with pieces of shit between its teeth.

'Mycroft! Absolutely spiffing, thank you. Yourself?' Felix seemed rightly afraid of the elder Holmes brother.

'I am fine. Felix, would you go and see to Cousin Linda? She has already consumed far too much alcohol and has thus taken to relieving herself in the Secret Garden.'

'I am sure that she is fully capable of looking after herself. She's a grown girl! I was just talking to young Sherlock here...' Felix trailed off, deflating by the second. His hand was creeping painfully and uncomfortably northwards up the leg, as if trying to possess as much of John as possible.

'As it happens, I require a little chat with my brother.' Felix didn't move, and John felt like he was caught in the crossfire of a historic battle. 'Alone.'

Felix eventually slunk off in the direction of the French doors to the gardens; Mycroft ushered John into a side corridor. Once they had reached some distance from the party, Mycroft blocked off the path and spoke in hushed tones.

'Good afternoon, John.'

**So, opinions anyone? John still has dinner and a whole hoard of interesting relatives to go through…. :) MC. xx**


	12. Chapter 12

**Through Your Eyes: Part 12**

'Next!'

Sherlock's finger slipped off the intercom with a flourish, and he eyed the little black box with suspicion as he sprawled across the desk. This was utterly uninspiring. Sherlock had always been fascinated by the concept of a desk job, but now that he was experiencing one it had very much lost its appeal. The office itself was boring and sterile, with whitewashed walls and a faded anatomical poster. The patients whom he had seen thus far had only come to plague Sherlock with moaning, and could only be dispatched with the ancient doctor's escape clause; it's a virus. The three multipacks of sweets which Sherlock had impulsively purchased from the Co-Op had all been consumed, replaced by absent-mindedly chewing a pen. There was some pondering as to whether the procurement of a dart board would alleviate the tedium. He had only been here an hour.

'Sleeping badly again, are we Doctor?' A frail female voice cooed quietly as the office door softly closed. Sherlock hauled himself upright to face a typical curtain-twitching old lady. Did John take to napping at work often? If this was the case, so much for the professional integrity which medics tended to pride themselves on. The human body was shameful when it came to letting the side down.

'Nothing that cannot be resolved without your interference, Mrs –' Sherlock fumbled through John's patient list, not really caring about the name; merely acknowledging that human beings tended to respond positively when addressed as such. 'Jenson.'

'Don't you worry then dear; my daughter is having the same problem at the moment, although that might have something to do with the twins. They are tearing around like little wrecking balls at the moment, bless them.' She began to rummage around in her monstrous handbag. 'I wish I was still young and full of life – I've got a photo in here somewhere.'

'That would really be incredibly unnecessary.' Sherlock was already thinking of ways to remove the matriarch from his presence. She was too ordinary to be interesting.

'Oh, I don't mind dear; I know you love hearing about my little brood. Sorry I didn't have time to make any cakes this time. You look as though you are wasting away – that friend of yours should really start feeding you better. Here we are.' She rapidly shoved a dog-eared photograph under Sherlock's nose; when his eyes adjusted, he was unfortunately confronted with a pair of overweight toddlers in hideous matching outfits. Sherlock grimaced.

'Good.' He said with as much awkward enthusiasm as he could not muster, which wasn't a lot. 'Now, could we get down to business? I am on a rather tight schedule.'

'Of course, Doctor. My, we are being bossy today! It suits you.' Mrs Jenson beamed at him, apparently ignoring Sherlock's death-glare. 'Now I know that you are probably expecting me to be in about my heart, but I've been having terrible problems with my piles lately and was really hoping you could do something about it.'

Sherlock flicked through Mrs Jenson's records in silence. She had a history of minor weight problems, so he asked her if there had been any changes to her diet or eating habits. She replied with a confident 'no'. Unfortunately Sherlock's newfound medical knowledge meant that he knew exactly what the haemorrhoid examination entailed. He really did not find it appealing.

'It's a virus!' Sherlock blurted out in a blind panic, hoping that the old woman would go away. Instead she just chuckled.

'You do love your little jokes, Doctor! Now do you want me lying on the bed, or shall I just bend over on the chair?'

Sherlock spent the next five minutes feeling, for want of a better expression, entirely grossed out. He had seen his fair share of disembowelments, maggot-ridden corpses, and chargrilled bones; even revelled in the fact that they meant a promising case. Nothing compared to sitting on an examination table with his index finger probing a pensioner's rectum; she even let some wind slip. The sweets nearly remerged from his stomach. Mrs Jenson eventually left happily after being prescribed cream, and exited the office with promises of chocolate cake for next time. Sherlock would now forever find the prospect of chocolate cake distinctly unappetising.

His experiences with his next few patients were not any better, but at least chest infections and in-grown toenails involved treatments which were much less unpleasant. The main problem was that they wouldn't stop talking long enough for Sherlock to just examine them and move swiftly on; oh no, they just had to prattle on about every microscopic detail. He had even told one pregnant woman outright that he didn't care that her husband had bought an old snooker table instead of a cot for the infant, yet she still kept talking at him. Why wouldn't the population of London just shut up? He was currently experiencing a similar issue, but in the form of a slothful hypochondriac who looked as though he would eat Sherlock if he replied in an unsatisfactory way.

'I am telling you Mr Dodds, there is nothing wrong with you!'

'I wouldn't be so sure, Dr Watson.' was the gruff reply, the patient's jowls turning into excited gelatine. 'There is an itching on the back of my neck something awful.'

'As I have informed you repeatedly, that is an insect bite.'

'Yes, but a mosquito could have done it, and we all know what trouble they cause. The internet says a bite does horrific things to you.'

'Anopheles mosquitoes are an unlikely occurrence in London. Go and wish for a plague of locusts instead, you idiotic Neanderthal.' Sherlock muttered testily before clearing his throat. 'We would know if you had malaria, Mr Dodds. You are not showing any symptoms of the illness.'

'Yes; now.' The man's tone was of the paranoid nature. 'But these things can stay hidden, can't they?'

'You are not ill.'

'Please just give me something. Anything.'

Sherlock slid over to the computer and idly typed a prescription. He printed it off and handed it to Mr Dodds.

'What's this?'

'A weight-loss drug prescription. Please see our pharmacist to collect it.'

'But why?'

'Firstly; you did say "anything". And secondly, Mr Dodds; you are fat and ignorant. If you do decide to spontaneously die of malaria, it would be one less blight upon the world. Get out of my surgery.'

The red-faced man looked Sherlock straight in the eye, snatched up the prescription and stormed out without another word. Sherlock felt a sense of relief wash over him at Mr Dodds' leaving; no wonder John sighed so much. He was contemplating hiding under the desk and waiting out the day there rather than having to receive another patient when there was a genteel knock at the door. Sarah entered without waiting to be summoned, annoying Sherlock further.

'Heya, I just saw the Fat Faker on his way out; he looked cross. What did you give him?'

'Obesity pills.' Sherlock addressed the kind, mousy woman with some regard. She had beaten up a Chinese gang member for him, so at least deserved a minor slice of his attention. Although why Sarah laughed at this simple fact, Sherlock didn't know.

'Jesus Christ, John! That was brilliant but stupid; I know he needed them, but he's probably going to move to another surgery now.'

'Good, assuming anyone would take him on. He can be someone else's problem.'

'Yeah I know, but if we told all of our patients exactly what we think it would give a new meaning to clinical. Plus we'd both be out of jobs and the Boss Lady's already on your back about the amount of time you spend working with Sherlock.' Sarah sat down opposite him, puzzling over the trilby but not actually saying anything. Yes, he was still wearing the hat indoors and yes, all attempts to remove it by patients thus far had failed. Sherlock enjoyed irritating the common man. That was why he liked Sarah so much; she had the good sense not to question his judgement.

'It would certainly make things more efficient. I am tired of people showing me pictures of family members and wedding rings.'

'Oh, stop being such a cynic!' She teased, 'You're sounding more and more like him every day. How is all of that stuff going anyway?'

'Fine. And you know the extent to which Sherlock hates his work being called "stuff".' Sherlock replied tersely.

'Well he isn't here, is he? Come on, you've got to give me more than that – we've hardly spoken since, y'know.' Sarah twirled her hair either nervously or seductively, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure of the difference. 'Tell you what, I've got a few more people to see now, but let's grab something to eat after work. Just as friends. That way you can give me a proper update.' She got up to leave, her blue eyes enquiring as to his answer.

'Of course.' He didn't know why he had consented; the words just came out. It wasn't very often that someone took a genuine, informed interest in his work, so he supposed that the answer lay somewhere in there. Sherlock loved this new impulsiveness, no strings attached. Plus there would be food.

'Fab. I'll wait until you are done, then we'll go to Bella Italia. I've got vouchers.' The door closed softly behind her, but before Sherlock could relax again Sarah reappeared. 'Oh, I almost forgot what I came in here for! You've got one of mine next who I couldn't see earlier. Mrs Smythe is bringing her daughter in, y'know, the Catholic boarding school girl, to investigate a suspected teenaged pregnancy but under to pretext of a BCG vaccination. Trouble is, poor Lucy is scared of needles and will need the jab at some point anyway. Just thought I'd give you the head's up. Have fun!'

And with a joking smile Sarah was gone. Sherlock steadied himself; just a few more of the ailing masses to go and then he would have a whole new social experience to play with. He opened the medical cabinet and dug around, ripping off a disposable sterilised needle from a string of packets. If Sherlock was going to double up on his acting efforts, he had better make it look good; props were everything when putting on a disguise. He swanned back to the desk and tapped at the intercom.

'Miss Lucy Smythe to room two.'

A few seconds later, a strict horse-faced woman appeared in front of him, dragging her hysterically screaming daughter behind her. The girl took one look at the needle tip and fainted. Sherlock groaned as he dragged her over to the examination bed. The mother simply watched on, disgusted; at who or what, Sherlock wasn't sure. This was he was a scientist and not a doctor. Explode though they may, chemicals didn't have emotions and at least the dead never talked back. Why would _anyone_ choose medicine for a career?

**And that's Chapter Twelve done. Reviews are loved. :) MC. xx**


	13. Chapter 13

**Through Your Eyes: Part 13**

'Excuse me?'

'I am sure that you heard me correctly.' Mycroft gave John a grim smile. 'In fact, given that my brother's cognitive powers are now in your possession, you could most certainly quote me word for word. You are therefore expressing polite confusion. How quaint.'

Mycroft knew. This wasn't entirely surprising, in spite of John's exhausting best attempt to keep up the Sherlock impression. The only place that John had let his guard down were within the confines of 221B, and yet he wouldn't put it past the older man to have surveillance inside the property; John could feel a flat purge coming on. More to the point, did Mycroft just _deadpan_?

'How the Hell did you know?!' John hissed quietly, wary that if one Holmes was obsessed with spying, they all could be.

'I think that the correct phrasing of your question should be "how could I not?" John. Aside from your use of niceties which Sherlock would rarely observe, my brother would never partake in the London nightlife bar if it was beneficial to a case. And believe me, if it was an investigation, I would know the outcome the very second before he did.'

'Seriously, Mycroft?!' John felt exasperated. 'You can't be following him everywhere all the time; it's a violation of your own laws.'

'Whilst your partnership with my brother prompts a certain level of surveillance in order to ensure the safety of the nation, I can assure you that I was in a meeting at the time in question. With a person of your previous likeness, in fact.'

Taking the bureaucrat's words in, John analysed Mycroft's demeanour, attempting to glean information from possibly the world's best poker face. Aside from the usual calculating eyes, there were orange hints of airbrushed stage makeup (namely concealer), with a particularly thick focus around the nasal area. So, a cack-handed makeup artist had been hired to hide the damage to Mycroft's person; a theory supported by tinges of purple bruising upon the right eyelid and outright stitching across the bridge. John grinned in spite of himself.

'He punched you?'

'Unfortunately, yes.' Mycroft looked as if he was chewing on something sour. 'It was Sherlock's bout of childish violence which prompted me to investigate your behaviour at a later hour. Whilst you are famed and somewhat admired for your general gallantry, I feel certain that it would not extend to one whose existence you knew very little about.'

'So, what you are saying is; you deserved it.'

'I may have advocated certain insinuations.'

'Good for Sherlock, then. Just for once, I'd love for you two to keep your bitching to a minimum.' John felt satisfied, with this half-an-explanation. It was probably the closest to the truth that he would ever get from Mycroft. 'Does anyone else know? About this, I mean.' He wildly waved an arm, gesturing his body.

'I very much doubt it, although I would suggest that you "up your game", as it were. Your theatrical outburst towards my Great Aunt Flora was comparatively milder than my brother's usual exploits. She is considering sending Sherlock a Christmas card.'

'You spoke to her?'

'Of course; damage repair is paramount in this family. Not to mention that I had some business to discuss with my dear Aunt; she is a retired sniper and prefers to be kept in an advisory capacity. It is in both mine and Sherlock's best interests that I maintain her favour.'

'A sniper? Christ!' Visions of a cuddly, prying old lady swam through John's mind; he wished now that he had been a bit kinder to her. He really didn't want to be murdered by a pensioner.

'Yes, I can see how you might find this alarming.' Mycroft droned, 'She is in fact, one of three assassins within the family. I will not indicate who the others are, as you already seem quite perturbed by this possibility.' He was hardly doing John a favour, as the urge to run for the hills was building by the second. Mycroft must have sensed this. 'Fleeing would be unwise, John, as I am sure you know. It would be best if you remain in this building until I tell you otherwise.' Again with the shark-smile.

'Aren't you annoyed that Sherlock's using me as a scapegoat? Because, well, I am.'

'A minor inconvenience. As already demonstrated, your presence here has the potential to be beneficial to my brother in ways which he no longer cares about. Whilst I would prefer for the situation to be resolved as soon as possible, we may as well take advantage of the situation. We would quite happily avoid a repeat of cousin Cecily's tenth birthday party.'

'Don't blame me; he started it. Can't you talk to him? I'm sick of people staring.'

'On what occasion has my brother ever taken my advice? I'd suggest that you approach him tactfully, with a reason which puts the reversal in his favour.'

'Yeah, I tried that. It didn't work.'

'Yes, did you enjoy your time with Miss Hooper? I can safely assume so. An unfortunate issue in the case of Sherlock Holmes is that no one can ever presume to know him; not even myself. Put his resources to good use if you ever intend to remedy any calamities he may have caused you.' Mycroft turned heel and walked away, his shoes in staccato upon the cold polished floor. His body language ordered John not to follow.

'Where are you going?' John almost cried out desperately. As weird as it might seem, Mycroft's presence felt oddly comforting.

'Whilst my presence on site is a prerequisite, my attendance at our dire little gathering is expected to be minimal. Such is one of the privileges of my position.' Mycroft replied smoothly as he disappeared around a hidden corner.

'So you're just going to leave me to fend for myself? I can't go back out there Mycroft; it's Hell!'

'You will return to the main room.' The instruction echoed down the hallway. 'Fortunately for myself, the cogs of justice never cease turning. I am, however, obliged to make an appearance at dinner.'

'What am I supposed to do until then?'

'Re-enter the conversation.' Mycroft's voice carried even with the decreasing volume. 'However, I advise that you avoid further interaction with Horatio at all costs. He has made inappropriate advances towards my brother in the past and Sherlock will not think of you kindly if you allow this to happen again.'

'For the last time, I'm not gay!' John yelled after him to no avail; some distant heavy office door had already clicked shut with a comfortable thud. So much for having Mycroft's full support on the problem. After the initial shock of being discovered, John had at least expected a sharply worded phone call or to be unceremoniously shoved in a government holding cell with Sherlock's chemistry set and a scalpel. But no, nothing; nada. Just a pat on the head and orders to make friends with everyone who Sherlock had pissed off over the years. Which happened to be just about the entire global population. As if John was going to try that again after what had happened with Molly.

'Bugger.' He muttered, preparing to throw himself back to the mercy of the lions. John had the express desire to piss everybody in the room off, just to show Mycroft that he wasn't anybody's tool. At least that would put his newfound talents to good use.

**Yes, I know I said there would be more quirky Holmes people (they come in a couple of chapter's time) but I was channelling Mycroft and he wouldn't shut up. Anyhow, do you want to see more of Sarah in the next chapter, or shall I just gloss over Sherlock's dinner? Reviews are adored. :) MC. xx**


	14. Chapter 14

**Through Your Eyes: Part 14**

'Thanks for walking me home, John.' Sarah said as she ascended the steps leading to her apartment, Sherlock trailing politely behind. 'Although you didn't need to. I am a big girl y'know.'

'It was a pleasure.' Sherlock replied smoothly. He had read somewhere that this post-dining behaviour was some sort of obligation, although thanks to John's befuddled brain Sherlock couldn't remember which books had demanded it. 'And it didn't seem fair to leave you prowling the streets for a cab.'

'Yeah, but it's only nine o'clock and it was hardly a crime hotspot, was it? No, wait – don't answer that. I've carried pepper spray on me ever since our first date anyway, so I would have been fine. Oh whatever, screw it. You know I'm a sucker for chivalry!' She paused at the top of the stairs and launched into a bone-crushing hug, which lasted a fraction of a second too long. 'Thank you. And I'm still really sorry about how much of a bitch Mrs Smythe was to you too. We should do this more often, as friends.'

'Goodnight, Sarah.' Sherlock pried her stubborn fingers from his lower back. 'I am sure that something could be arranged.' He turned, managing three creaking steps before Sarah called out to him.

'John!' Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to view Sarah with her key hovering above the door. 'I almost forgot to ask; are you seeing anyone at the moment?'

This was definitely classed as a minor annoyance. Social niceties aside, Sherlock had had a relatively pleasant evening. Amidst the accoutrements of a three course meal (paid for by John's ever-straining credit limit of course), there had been enlightening and intelligent conversation; initially encompassing new surgical procedures and Sarah's professional whining before progressing onto his recent cases in glorious detail. He had been probed and prodded for every scrap of information. The attention to which Sarah had given John's "extra-curricular activities" was positively reverent, not even shying away from the most gruesome of detail. Sherlock had even been allowed to berate the waiter for the lateness of the food. His overall verdict, until this moment, had been that Sarah was remarkably enjoyable company. But then she became predictable. Even without a detective's brain, Sherlock should have seen that particular question coming a mile off. He realised that he was probably a little at fault, although he was at a loss on how he might have mislead her; the only occasions that Sherlock ate socially was with John, with the events filled exclusively with nagging and wistful sighs, so he lacked comparisons. Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't currently equipped to deal with Sarah's changing (but probably ever-in-the-back-of-her-mind) interests. After the cold responses he had received from both parties the other day, he wasn't entirely sure whether John had a girlfriend anymore. And there was the complicated prospect of furthering his revenge, although Sherlock would not stoop to embroil someone whom he could actually tolerate in his and John's war games. Besides, if Sarah and John had indeed, as Sherlock had previously deduced, reached the point of intercourse, anything which happened now would prove extremely awkward.

'It's complicated.' A satisfactory response, yet Sherlock was effectively giving nothing away.

'Oh.' Sarah barely concealed her disappointment. 'Where did we go wrong, John?'

'I don't know.' It was the truth; Sherlock was perplexed at why John could not pin _any_ woman down, least of all Sarah. A minutely guilty part of him thought he should at least enquire on John's behalf. 'Was it him?'

To Sherlock's surprise, she laughed. 'No! Do you seriously think that I would spend half of dinner talking about all that stuff you do if it was Sherlock's fault?' Sarah paused. 'Although Jeanette seems to think he was the main problem. She felt like she was going out with an extra person.'

'You talk to his – my – other ex-girlfriends?!'

'Oh, yeah; we've got our own blog and everything. "The Many Women of John Watson: What The Hell Happened?" We update and message every Tuesday.' She gestured a theatrical banner, grinning.

'Really?' Why did so many people feel compelled to air their pointless drivel to the virtual world?

'No, you idiot!' Her smile faded slightly as her key finally slipped into the lock. 'I see just Jeanette at book group. It's how you met her, remember?'

'Of course.'

'See you at work then. I hope things get uncomplicated soon.' Sarah offered him a small smile before Sherlock was left gazing up at the frosted glass of the closed door.

He wrapped his arms around himself defensively as he drifted into the night; there was just enough of a breeze to cause him discomfort, whipping between the gaps in the new suit. Sherlock missed his coat. The dull ache in his shoulder had sharpened and he was feeling sorry for himself. Being someone else wasn't quite as fun as he had anticipated. It wasn't that he was miserable, rather that viewing life in slow motion was causing Sherlock to become lazy, and laziness had an eventual habit of morphing into boredom. Perhaps the tedium depended upon whose body he was occupying? Although an obvious guinea pig lived within 221B, if Sherlock had done this intentionally he would not have chosen John. This, he was ready to admit to himself; in spite of this particular situation's _complexities_, there was a certain level of ordinary which was in no way fascinating. Sherlock snorted at the thought of how much Hell he could raise in his brother's body; but the amount of brainpower would feel too close to home and Mycroft himself would surely be a painful adversary. Clearly the experiment would need to be refined at a later date. As for now, a ceasefire was in order. After all, vengeance would be a more subtle, simpler affair if Sherlock regained possession of a superior mind. He began to text.

_Enjoying the party? SH._

_No. Fuck off, arsehole._

_Language, John. SH._

_Oh, I'm so sorry: Fuck off PLEASE, arsehole._

_Not what I meant. SH._

_Yeah, well one of your Uncles has been sniffing around after me for hours, so forgive me if I don't care._

Sherlock paused to shudder at that image; he knew exactly who John was talking about. His relationship with Uncle Felix had been that of one-sided perversion since before Sherlock had turned eighteen.

_Has Mycroft threatened to castrate him yet? SH._

_No. Why do you care?_

_Because you have already allowed my body to be violated once and I will not let it happen again. SH._

_By the way, we need to talk. SH._

_We're talking now._

_Face to face. SH._

_Why should I EVER talk to you again?_

_Which house are you in? SH._

_Somewhere in Oxfordshire. Don't try to distract me._

_Describe it to me. SH._

_Very oak-panelled, lots of dead things. A Victorian's wet dream. Why?_

_To answer both of your questions; I can get you out of there. SH._

Sherlock sat on a park bench, fidgeting, as he waited for a reply to his last message. He hated being nice; it would always backfire upon him later, but it was necessary if he wanted to get his own way.

**So, I bailed out and went for half 'n' half on the Sarah front. If you are seeing an end, don't worry – I've got at least another five chapters or so in me. This one just tightens things up a bit. Reviews are positively adored. :) **


	15. Chapter 15

**Through Your Eyes: Part 15**

'Are you enjoying the entrée, darling?'

John looked down at his untouched quail's egg and accompanying slop; no, he obviously wasn't, but he didn't want to give her the satisfaction by saying so. About an hour after his little meeting with Mycroft, of which John had spent a lot of time hiding behind a houseplant and glaring at all who came near him; a marginally effective tactic, with the exception of a few disturbingly coy glances from a certain elderly gentle-pervert. The guests had been ushered further down the rabbit hole into an identical room bar a stupidly long banquet table in place of the high-backed chairs. Mycroft had already been seated, unsurprisingly, beneath a large pair of antlers at the head of the table when John walked in; however, so far he had not made good on his promise to guide John through the minefield that was dinner and had instead booted him to the other end of the table. This had left an unwilling John in the company of a young woman named Eleanor, who was beautiful in every aspect except her personality. Whilst he had been spared the companionship of the people he had been forced to talk to earlier, her self-absorbed acid tongue was not much of an improvement. With the amount of people in this family that John was either starting to hate or fear it was a miracle that their genes had produced someone that he actually liked.

'Yes, it's very –.'

'Of course you are not. You're Sherlock, you don't enjoy anything.' Eleanor scoffed, 'If I was your sister and not your cousin, I would have someone sort you out. But, as I thankfully am not in that dreadful position, I feel no regrets in condemning your dreadful, selfish behaviour. Really, feigning illness for all these years is shameful!'

'Excuse me?' John winced at her every word; this must be the only woman in the world who could out-scathe Sherlock.

'The heroin, Sherlock! Now the others may think you are clean, but I know better!' She hissed, catlike as she bowled into John's personal space. 'We had an agreement, didn't we? If you are not going to share it with me, you stop shooting up altogether! Anyway, enough about you – has Mycroft's divorce been finalised? An artiste of my level has needs, and he would satisfy them quite nicely.'

'Firstly, Eleanor, I am clean; and secondly, he is your cousin.' Aside from the fact that this was the longest sentence that he had delivered in their entire fifteen minute conversation, Eleanor was not doing much to dissuade John's imagination of the inbred upper class. More to the point; Mycroft had been married?! John glanced over to the other end of the table, trying to read Mycroft; he was enigmatic as ever. The smug bastard probably knew what John was trying to do, and smiled serenely back at him. John empathised with the poor woman who had once been smitten (or mad) enough to marry a Holmes.

'You know full well it is commonplace. We have done it before and will no doubt do it again. He knows that I enjoy being a little bit naughty now and then.'

'Honestly, I don't want to know.' Just how fucked up was Sherlock's family?

The starter had been removed from in front of John in order to make way for the main course. By now, he was willing to bet his pension on the fact that the rest of the meal would not be his idea of traditional party fare; Iceland prawn rings and cocktail sausages, followed by jelly and ice cream next to a chocolate fountain. Either way, John wanted it to end quickly so that he could be bundled into a black Rolls Royce and allowed to leave. Preferably after spending the remaining few hours under the influence of chloroform.

'Ah, but I know that you do! I simply couldn't bear the thought Mycroft surrendering to the inexplicable demands of that common harlot, could you?'

'Umm, no, I guess? Listen, Eleanor, are we even talking about the same person here?'

This woman clearly knew something about Mycroft that John didn't; although, to be fair, that wasn't hard. Reading her was proving to be difficult and, not for the first time in the past few days, John was definitely getting the impression that Sherlock's abilities had only been perfected through years of being a professional arsehole. Still, her respiratory rate had quickened and her pupils had dilated approximately three millimetres in the last ten seconds, so Eleanor was clearly passionate about someone. Additionally, every word that she had spoken so far, though ultimately selfish, had been family orientated; not surprising really, given the premise of this current event. Her nails were perfectly manicured in red, coordinated to match her lipstick, suggesting a desk-job, but John's personality radar was screaming that Eleanor didn't seem the type. Her perfume was incredibly sickly and out to impress. So either she was shagging Mycroft, or John had zoned in at the wrong point in the conversation.

'Oh, Sherlock, you arrogant prick! Of course you don't care about the lives of those around you. And poor little Patsy's one was cut so short!' Eleanor emitted a loud sob. The rest of the dinner party didn't even glance their way.

'Patsy….?' Sherlock hadn't mentioned anyone dying in his family recently, much less a child. Not that he would; John was doubtful that Sherlock even knew what a funeral was. But then, John knew what funeral was and he was stuck in this body. Who the Hell was Patsy?

'Our blessed little family dog, Sherlock! You grew up with her! She and Mycroft were ever so close.'

'Oh, _that_ Patsy.'

'It was the perfect arrangement. _I_ would be able to practice my taxidermy and _she_ would remain with Mycroft always. When we steal the remains back from that cruel tart, I shall turn Patsy into the monument that she truly deserves. How can you ignore the death of one whom has had such a profound effect on your life?'

'It's just a dog.' He didn't mean for the words to slip out. For all John knew, the mutt could have been important. Perhaps a cabinet minister.

'Prick!' Eleanor spat, turning away from John with a theatrical "hmpff".

John breathed a silent sigh of relief. He didn't feel as guilty about upsetting her as he would have done five hours ago. With Eleanor giving him the cold-shoulder, he might actually be able to eat something. But, as the steak-filled fork finally managed to brush John's lips, he felt a slight tug upon his suit jacket. He looked down and groaned. A small child was attached to his sleeve. A little girl, no more than the age of six; blonde-haired, pink-dressed, curious expression. And big blue eyes that seemed to bore right into your soul. She opened her mouth to speak and John was expecting to hear the characteristic babbling of an early primary school child.

'Unca Sherlock? Your aura tastes different. I sense that you are not yourself.'

'Oh.' John looked up in shock, checking that no-one else had heard that particular exchange. How on Earth could she know? Christ, kids were perceptive, but there was no way she could have found out something like this so easily; only Felix had come this close, and that was more of an acknowledgement that "Sherlock" was less comfortable around him, anyway. And the _way_ that she had said it. Aside from being just plain creepy, was John dealing with a pint-sized Mystic Meg here? He looked back down, cobbling together a child-friendly answer. The cherubic little girl had disappeared. Maybe it was that chemical that Mycroft had shot him up with; John hoped to high Hell that she was just a damn hallucination.

'Excuse me; I have to use the toilet.' John announced to no-one in particular. He rose, pushing his heavy chair underneath the table, and walked as briskly from the room as he could, leaving his food untouched.

He had just wanted an excuse to get away, but now that he had brought it up John really wanted to find a bathroom; whether to piss or puke, he couldn't tell. As he jogged around identical corridors with increasing irritation, a soft ping emitted from John's pocket. He didn't have to guess who the message was from. This had better be good. If Sherlock was just texting to gloat he would have a broken nose when John next saw him, and John didn't even care that it was his own nose he would be breaking. Predictably, the smug messages came thick and fast, with John angrily stabbing responses at a fractionally slower speed. He saw a sliver of a marble bathtub through an open door and made for it. He had just scared the shit out of himself (having seen Sherlock's face in the mirror) when Sherlock's most recent message asked John to describe the house. There was a visible shift in the tone of the text, which meant that Sherlock, being Sherlock, was scheming. John was hesitant about replying – it would probably involve "acquiring" something for his flatmate, and John was still seething at the last plan – but as he was cowering in a bathroom from a house full of bizarrely gifted people, John didn't have many options. He fired off a very brief description of the hall, trusting that Sherlock would remember a childhood home well enough to work out his best friend's location. John placed the phone on the washstand and lent over the sink, splashing his exhausted eyes with cool water.

The mobile phone chimed again, moving a fraction of an inch as it jostled the porcelain washstand. John ignored it, trying to regain some composure whilst trying to avoid thinking about what might happen if the kid told everyone that "Unca Sherlock" was acting more than a bit off. The phone pinged again; Sherlock demanding to know why John had not answered immediately. The detective's lack of patience was astounding and if John left him hanging for much longer there would be Hell to pay. Not that John cared much about Sherlock's sulks, but they were usually coupled with John's things going missing for experimental purposes. Sighing wistfully, he reached for the phone and settled down on the edge of the bathtub to reply. John's heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of Sherlock's last two texts.

_To answer both of your questions; I can get you out of there. SH._

_John? SH._

John's stubborn streak dissipated at the first message. Without a second thought he ran from the bathroom and dived into an abandoned stairwell, acknowledging that it was probably a blind spot for Mycroft's security team and that he would be safe for the time being. He scrolled through the contacts screen and slammed his finger down on the call button.

_'John?'_

'Yeah, it's me. So, you were saying?'

_'John, are you alright? You've been running.'_

'I'm fine.' Although, he was panting quite heavily; it didn't take a genius to know he'd had a small workout.

_'Even in this state, I can clearly tell that you are lying. What happened?'_

'Your relatives happened; I'll tell you about it later. Just get me out of here!'

_'Fine, but I will not be misinformed. Where are you now?'_

'A stairwell; I don't know which part of house though.'

_'Are the stairs in a spiral or straight?'_

'Umm…Spiral. How on Earth do you know this?'

_'Unfortunately I lived within those walls for twelve years. Head up the stairs to the second floor and continue until you reach the end of the corridor. Then turn right.'_

'What's on the right?'

_'My old bedroom. I am working strictly on the assumption that my brother's obsession with routine will mean that he is too busy to monitor you for the moment. I'd suggest that you move swiftly.'_

'Fine. Message received, M.'

_'Who is M?'_

'Never mind.'

John did as he was told and eventually ended up in the teenaged Sherlock's room. It looked like a dusty time capsule, albeit with more twisted genius than the average adolescent could muster. Naturally there was a periodic table, complete with burnt corners, and various pickled things in jars. There was also a full-sized skeleton hanging from the ceiling, sans skull.

'No West Ham or Princess Leia posters in here. Some things never change.'

_'Yes, but the public school which I attended did not warrant such frivolous popular culture. Judging by yourself, I can't say that I was deprived of the comprehensive system.'_

'Piss off. Get me away from this house now, and we can argue about this later.'

_'Remove the rug from the middle of the floor and you will find a trap door. Open it.'_

'A bit cliché, Sherlock.' John knelt down and hauled the rug back, feeling his hand squelch in something sticky. Sure enough, it revealed a square panel that was big enough for a man to fit inside. An audible sigh rattled down the line; John thought that he had trademarked that.

_'This room was once part of the old servant's wing; a part of the building in which the house's inner workings could not be viewed by its masters. As additional doors were deemed "unsightly" the situation called for hidden entrances and trapdoors in order to gain access.'_

'Why are you telling me this?'

_'I'm glad to know that you are using my brain to the _best_ of its ability, John. My parents sealed off the wing and most of the entrances when the property was purchased, citing that they had no use for it. I, with my trapdoor, had other plans and hence used it to escape the tedium of my adolescence. Mycroft has long since forgotten that the rooms exist, nor would he care, and hence there is no form of security within the wing.'_

'That is amazing, Sherlock. Where do I go from here?'

_'Downwards, John. Follow the staircases and they will lead you to the servant's dining hall. Turn left and you will find a cast-iron door. Walk through the ice-house tunnel until you find the opening.'_

'Thanks Sherlock – I would say that I owe you one, but we both know that I don't. Stay on the line in case I get lost, will you?'

_'I can't. There is something that I need to do.'_

'Oh. Great. How do I get out of the grounds? You know he's bound to have guards or something.'

_'Don't believe all that you hear about my brother. He is still submissive to at least one person. The icehouse is right at the perimeter. Climb the wall and the nearest village is two mile to the east. A black minicab will be waiting for you there and I'll meet you at Baker Street.'_

'Sherlock?' John wrenched open the hatch and lowered himself inside. Thankfully there were woodworm ridden steps below.

_'Yes?'_

'Before you go, can I ask you one more question?'

_'If you must.'_

'Why didn't your mother come to her own party?'

**For those of you reading this chapter again, sorry about the repeat performance but I wasn't happy with the flow of this chapter. The bit that I got rid of entirely might appear as an outtake though. Reviews are adored. :) MC. Xx**


	16. Chapter 16

**Through Your Eyes: Part 16**

Sherlock approached the cheap laminate double doors with something akin to apprehension. Whilst his "something to do" was merely an expression of his distaste towards John's need for mollycoddling and the resultant desire to hang up quickly, Sherlock's apparently aimless wandering had turned into an accidental mission. He had been deep in thought when he had crossed the threshold of St Bart's Hospital, scrimping together a plan which would ultimately coerce John into doing his bidding, and his borrowed medic's feet had driven him to a destination which they were more than accustomed to. Sherlock's irritation upon realising where he was could not be described as minor. Aside from the glaringly obvious notion that his brain reacted a lot slower than his body, Sherlock Holmes never did anything without purpose; a world which lacked a point was boring. This unfortunately meant that, now he was in the hospital, he was low on options. An idiot couldn't fail to notice that John would never deliver lab specimens to 221B, so finding new things to poke at would have been inappropriate in Sherlock's current guise, and after a day of examining the general populace he couldn't stomach Stamford's boisterous company. That left only one thing; he would have to talk to Molly.

The situation would have to be dealt with sooner or later, yet Sherlock had been hoping for the latter; hence the creeping around. He suspected that currently Molly's emotions would be riding high in a sea of hormones, given her ability to cling onto a scenario for some time. This wasn't what irked him; Molly's feelings could easily be rectified with a few choice words. No, what concerned Sherlock was his potential inability to reign in his own sentiments; an uneasiness stemming from John's occasionally rash, heart-driven actions over the past few months. His own body was tame, whilst this one lacked perspective. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy Ms Hooper's company, in fact she was a passable female specimen of humanity, but nothing could be allowed to infringe upon his work. The work was sacrosanct. This was another reason to regain control of Sherlock's own body; to repair the damage which John had caused with the unchecked engine.

After some deliberation, Sherlock eventually entered the lab. To turn back now would have been cowardice, which had never appealed to him; even if a large part of his subconscious was praying that Molly had finished work early tonight. Unfortunately, however, she was bent over a microscope in the far corner of the room, her stained laboratory coat swinging open to reveal an inappropriately seasonal jumper and faded blue jeans. She was wearing a particular shade of lipstick and her flyaway hair was parted just the way he liked it. Sherlock tried to summon the blood to his head as he cleared his throat.

'Molly….'

She started, and yelped out of her seat as if she had sat on a pin.

'John!' Molly recomposed herself, glancing around as if expecting someone else to arrive. Sherlock didn't have to imagine who; all things set aside and contrary to popular belief, John and he were not joined at the hip. 'Is he with you?'

'In a manner of speaking; no.'

'Oh, right.' She murmured to herself, her eyes narrowed at his reply but she ultimately seemed to deflate a little. Sherlock watched as she assumed a passive expression and straightened up, remembering that she had company. 'How can I help you, John?'

'Ah,' Sherlock Holmes, the King of Comebacks and Ambassador of the Final Word, hadn't actually thought out this conversation. 'Well, you see…it's about…well, it's about m – I mean, Sherlock.' His vocal chords were straining; doing the squeaky thing which John only achieved when he was upset or particularly embarrassed. 'The thing. The other night.'

'Oh. Why isn't he here himself?' The only consolation that Sherlock could find was that Molly didn't seem to be enjoying this topic either; her cheeks were flushed pink and she had begun toying with her fringe. They were equally matched in their awkwardness. 'No, wait; that was a stupid question. Of course he wouldn't come here. Not for me.'

The silence which followed was painful. When Sherlock finally spoke, it was with the desire to get the conversation over with.

'It wasn't meant to happen. You caught him off guard.'

To his surprise, she laughed bitterly. 'You think this is the first one night stand I've had? John, I know the score.'

'Yes, but do you really?' Sherlock didn't even know what "the score" was, so why should she? He closed the gap between them, skirting around benches in the vain hope that it would diffuse some of the tension. 'There has been….complications with his work recently. It was a mistake.'

'But he was so nice to me….' Molly whispered, evidently hurt. 'So, is this _complication_ going to make it to the blog? You've got me all interested now.' She laughed again, going back on the defensive.

'I don't know.' Not if he had anything to say, or else hack, about it. How could Sherlock make her understand? He tried to match her flippancy. 'Listen to me Molly; it cannot happen again. You know what he's like.'

'Yeah, but that's our problem isn't it? We both know that it's all about the work but we still can't walk away.' Sherlock didn't quite catch Molly's inference, but took the comment as though she understood.

'Exactly.' He hadn't felt guilty in a long time; it was an oddly painful sensation. 'So are you okay with leaving things as they were?'

'It's fine; I'm used to being invisible anyway. I wouldn't expect anything else of him, would you?'

Sherlock smiled sadly. 'Probably not.' He paused, taking in the dishevelled and tired woman standing before him. A frankly brilliant woman who had never questioned his integrity, and would probably follow him to the ends of the Earth without so much as a "thank you". 'And you've never been invisible, Molly. You have always mattered and I think that one day Sherlock will let you know that himself.'

'Well, John, thank you for trying to make me feel better anyway.' Molly flicked the hair out of eyes and stood up, returning his smile with a comforted expression. 'If that's everything, I'd quite like to go home now. I got a call earlier from someone who thinks they've found my cat; I want to go and take a look before it gets too late.'

'Of course.' Sherlock held the door open for her, waiting with a surprising level of patience as she flew around looking for her handbag. Once they'd exited the lab, a thought occurred to him. 'Molly?'

'Yes?' She froze mid-step, looking over her shoulder to face him.

'Sherlock needs some more livers for the arsenic experiment and the supermarket ones aren't fresh enough. Or human enough, for that matter. Could you bring some round to Baker Street once they have been signed off? I'll see if I can coax Sherlock into talking to you for a change.'

'You know what?' Molly genuinely beamed for the first time in what felt like a decade. 'I think I'd like that.'

**Excuse the mild fluff, but this chapter had to happen at some point. I'm a review magnet, so please give me something to read. :) MC. xx**


	17. Chapter 17

**Through Your Eyes: Part 17**

John awoke with a start. He was curled up in an elongated foetal position on 221B's black leather sofa, fully clothed and his body aching all over. This was the third time this week that he had woken up in an unexpected place. He lay there motionless and staring fixatedly at the switchblade embedded in the mantelpiece whilst he recalled the events of the previous night. His daring escape from the manor, or what he was starting to refer to mentally as the ninth level of Hell, had been eventful to say the least. Sherlock had neglected to mention the dogs which were patrolling the perimeter, so John had been forced to find out just how fast his flatmate could run. Thanks to being no longer vertically challenged, he had just managed to vault over the high brick wall before he could become Pedigree Chum for some very hungry pooches. Fortunately, after what seemed like an eternity of panting and stumbling over his own feet, there had been the promised cab parked outside a village Post Office. His feet still stung from the walk and the taxi had been a huge blessing in disguise; even if the inexperienced but chatty driver had deprived John of sleep by insisting that he navigate the way to London. It had been a late night and an early morning; a common theme recently, so John wasn't entirely surprised that he had passed out barely a metre from the door. As for the rest of yesterday's decidedly traumatic experience, John was currently utilising Sherlock's selective memory.

'Morning, John!'

John groaned audibly as Sherlock bounded towards him, after presumably having spent a well-rested night in his own bed. This wasn't a difficult deduction; given that Sherlock's room contained the only functional bed in the flat and John's body had a natural affinity for sleep, there were very few places where Sherlock could have emerged from looking like a charismatically handsome git. The suspicious thing was that Sherlock was looking incredibly pleased with himself whilst munching on an inexplicably large chocolate bar. And also wearing a hat and three-piece indoors.

'Why am I dressed like a pimp?' John questioned, mustering up enough energy for deadpan.

'It's fashion.'

'No, I'm pretty sure it's not. And since when do you care anyway?' John grinned in earnest; the concept of Sherlock Holmes remotely following any trend was laughable.

'Since I took the liberty of purchasing you some new clothes. Judging by what remained of your old wardrobe, you needed the influence of more refined tastes than your own.'

'Seriously?' John didn't know whether to be annoyed, shocked, or disturbed by the gesture. The fact that Sherlock was trying to be _nice_ was more than a little unsettling.

'Seriously. I won't ask if you want breakfast because I know that you are not hungry. In my normal state I can last at least two more days without sustenance, therefore the same rule would apply to you. A week, if there is any chance that you have consumed one of the family cook's monstrosities.'

How did he –? John watched his friend select another hunk of chocolate and began to wonder if it was possible that any of Sherlock's old intellect was coming through. Or was it purely that Sherlock knew his normal limits? Moreover, what in Christ's name was his friend up to? John creaked himself into a proper sitting position, curious beyond belief.

'You know, if this is your way of getting me to talk to you again, there _are_ less expensive ways of doing it.'

Sherlock flopped down onto the chair opposite him. 'No; the clothes were a necessity. Aiding your escape was by the way of an apology. I wanted a ceasefire.'

'Well leave me alone for a couple of hours more kip and you've got one.' John rolled back onto his side, facing the wall and fully intent on getting some shut-eye before his furniture turned up.

'No.'

John peaked over his shoulder, bleary-eyed and scowling. Sherlock was staring at him placidly. 'What do you mean "no"?'

'Get dressed; any clothes that you prefer. We are going out.'

'Why? Have we got a case?' he blew a stray black curl out of his face, puzzled.

'In a manner of speaking, yes.'

'But I thought that you were avoiding Lestrade? I saw the puke on your –.'

'I am glad that you are finally putting my brain to good use.' Sherlock cut him off, impatient. 'Just go and get dressed. Please.'

'Fine; but only if you don't say "please" again. You are acting weird enough as it is.' John dropped onto the floor and stomped off to the wardrobe.

It turned out that Sherlock had been lying about the case and was indeed still avoiding anything to do with investigative work. Instead, for some reason John found himself in a Stratford shopping centre just outside of the City and being allowed to pick a film of his choice, complete with popcorn. Sherlock hadn't even stirred when John deliberately picked the most whimsical and factually inaccurate flick possible. Hell, he'd been perplexed right up until the point where Sherlock had offered to pay. _With his own card._

'Okay Sherlock, what the fuck is going on here?' He asked, out of politeness and accustomed incredulity more than anything else. Sherlock throwing money around like paper was not unusual in itself, however until now he had never punched in his own PIN number in the entire year that John had known him.

'What?' Sherlock was about as subtle as a brick through a greenhouse window. 'Can't I do something nice for a change?'

'No, because you're _you_.' John retorted.

Sherlock huffed noisily in response and gestured wordlessly for John to follow him into the theatre. As they walked, John began to notice things. Sherlock's gait was wider than necessary; something that would have been normal a few days ago, yet now appeared awkward and deliberate. His shiny shoes were slipping due to smaller feet, so clearly they were Sherlock's own, as were the cufflinks and watch. The trilby had been discarded back at the flat. More to the point, Sherlock was wearing his coat in spite of it being a relatively humid day; the collar turned up in the way that he clearly thought was cool. All unmistakeable signs of homesickness. As John sat down, the pieces finally began to click into place.

'Sherlock?' He whispered as the title sequence launched.

'John?'

'If you want your body back, you only had to ask.'

'Oh.'

John smirked silently and settled in to watch some animated monsters run across the screen.

**And that's the penultimate chapter. Someone suggested a similar concept to me a while back (thanks 8of9!) so I thought I would adapt it. Opinions anyone? :) MC. Xx**


	18. Chapter 18

**Through Your Eyes: Part 18**

The equipment and copious amounts of glassware was sprawled across the floor, Sherlock sitting cross-legged in the middle of it all, feeling determined yet content. After the pandemonium of the past week, the sense of familiarity was welcome. The window was open to allow the cool evening air to pass through the flat, hopefully speeding up the process via oxygenation. The shiny brand new bed, identical to the warped previous one, was directly in the line of fire; much to John's apparent dismay. The rest of the new flat-pack furniture had been regrettably rescued and smuggled into Mrs Hudson's spare bedroom. Bunsen burners flickered, hotplates steamed, and liquids bubbled through connector tubes as he worked quickly and clumsily towards the desired point. The room smelt strangely like burnt toast.

Sherlock slotted the last few pieces into place. Admittedly, up until an hour ago, he hadn't known how to reverse the switch at all, much less if there would be any further side-effects. He wasn't going to inform John of his lie however; not when he had been so receptive to Sherlock's requests since their trip to the cinema. The irritation that niceties hadn't actually been required was minor; particularly because the outing had introduced Sherlock to the concept of a Slush Puppy and that the premise of the film had been tolerable for a more relaxed mind.

There had been a few more complications which his flatmate would not be made aware of, largely to save Sherlock's dignity. He was working under the notion that they required identical conditions to the previous event, and, thanks to John's usual lacking of an eidetic memory, it had taken Sherlock some time to remember them. The finer details were still embarrassingly fuzzy. And again, he would not admit this to John; the other man had finally mastered the art of deduction and was being ludicrously arrogant about it, which caused Sherlock to feel oddly upset. The sooner the situation was resolved the better and only then could Sherlock begin his investigations into more receptive subjects, safe in the knowledge that he was the superior being in the room. He looked up as John poked his head around the doorframe (the door still not having been replaced).

'Are you done yet?' John had asked him the same question at least ten times already. In the last thirty minutes.

'As I told you not a minute ago; almost. It is critical that I assemble the components carefully. Unless you want to delay things further?'

'Yeah, well, hurry up alright? I've been staring at the ceiling for ages and have started analysing its composition. Did you know we've got Asbestos?'

'I did, as a matter of fact, and I would quite like to know what it is again. Aside from the fact that the word is now proclaiming danger to my every cell.'

'Are you saying that my body is shit again?'

'I'm saying that you should leave me to finish; although that particular sentiment is one of the reasons why.'

He watched as John opened his mouth to reply, resembling a dead goldfish for several seconds before thinking better of it and storming away. Sherlock smirked, satisfied that his friend now knew the true meaning of boredom. John seemed to feel that it was problematic, and Sherlock was certain that _he_ never kvetched to this infuriating extent when boredom took its toll on _him_. Not that dull tedium would be a problem for at least a day once things had been rectified. Their unspoken pact to avoid police work would surely mean that the Met would be gagging at the bit for his expert opinion. And then there would be the unpleasant task of speaking to Mycroft, an insight into John's latest relationship melodrama, before the inevitable visit from Molly could and would cause them further embarrassment. Still, if he was going to put himself through more discomfort, at least it would have a practical element and he could do it on his old terms.

Sherlock hauled himself to his feet and made a few final adjustments to the position of a reflux condenser. Locating a piece of paper, he burnt it to hide the evidence from John; a shoddy and childlike doodle which he had used to jog his memory. Only when he was clear that there was nothing intellectually incriminating and everything perfect about the setup did he call John back in. The man came quickly, but grumbled nonetheless.

'What was the point in telling me to piss off? If I'd have known that you were going to be that quick, I would have stuck around.'

Yes, but you would have complained about the mess. I couldn't be bothered to listen. Now, give me your arm.' Sherlock replied smoothly, not looking up as he rummaged around in a very familiar tin, finding what he was looking for.

John agreed begrudgingly, although he seemed reluctant to proffer the limb. A reasonable hesitation, if Sherlock considered what John had seen him do to said arms in the name of research.

'Why do you need –?' Trust John to pussyfoot around the subject before committing to action. Sherlock straightened up, grabbed his flatmate by the wrist and administered a hypodermic to the nearest vein; John had yelped comically in response, recoiling. Sherlock merely tutted and rolled his eyes; why would a medical man wish to prolong a simple procedure?

'Your arm please, John.' He replied calmly.

'Jesus, Sherlock! What the Hell did you do that for?!' John was looking at him open-mouthed and appalled, as if Sherlock had killed a man; he was cradling his arm, shielding the minute blood loss.

'Think John! I was carrying out an investigation into the reactive properties of the haem group when you decided to hurl the reaction mixture across the room. Ergo, we need blood to replicate it; more specifically, the blood which originally belonged to me.' He huffed loudly; irked at the mental effort it was taking to explain this. 'Surely my intellect has explained that to you. Now, _your arm_.'

'You could have waited until I was ready.' John muttered back, yet allowing Sherlock to take his now fully offered arm.

'Actually, I couldn't. You persist in your habit of dawdling and a significant amount of adrenaline needed to be dispensed into the blood stream. It was necessary.'

'What about you? Should I wind you up too?' John was grinning at him somewhat maliciously.

'Need I remind you that you have caused me enough emotional upheaval this week?' Sherlock did not look up as he withdrew the blood sample. John could not be allowed to be completely off the hook, not even for a truce.

''Shut up.' The remark was jovial but pointed. Clearly they would not be discussing either of their misadventures once normality was restored.

Sherlock injected the contents of the syringe into a tube and they followed the red bubble's progress around the room until it helter-skeltered through a fractional distillation column and emerged into a heated round-bottomed flask. It was rather like Mouse Trap really, now that Sherlock had the misfortune to understand what that was, although hopefully more fruitful. After a moment, the emulsion-like mixture turned reddish-brown; Sherlock detached the flask from the equipment and returned to where he had left John. As he handed it to his friend, it was a true Jekyll and Hyde moment; Sherlock was now learning to appreciate irony.

'What now?' John asked him. 'Do I use kinetic energy and increased molecular collisions to promote spontaneous combustion, or what?'

Sherlock blinked once, and then had to force himself to blink again. John was laughing at him.

'Oh he of the slow brain! It is nice not being you._ Do you want me to throw it?_'

'Ah, yes.' Sherlock recovered quickly. 'Preferably as hard and fast as you can, in the direction of that very same corner.'

'Okay.' John looked as if he was steadying himself. 'On three, then?'

'Yes; one…..' Sherlock was feeling a little ill.

'Two….'

'Th –.'

They froze as they heard a knock at the living room door.

'Hello? Is anyone here? The door's open so I thought I'd just come up, like at Christmas.' Molly; the Queen of Questionable Timing.

'Go away!' Sherlock snapped.

'Oh, hi John!' Her voice continued to make its way cautiously through the flat. 'I can't see you. I've brought round those livers that Sherlock wanted and a new biohazard bin in case he wants one. Where do you want them?'

'Leave them at the door.' John joined in; both of them were now desperate for her to leave.

Instead, she kept talking and entered the room, oblivious to their shocked expressions.

'I've left them on the table. Hi, Sherlock! What are you d –?'

'MOLLY, NO!' They both shouted.

She had jostled in between them in an effort to become part of some non-existent conversation, carelessly barging into John. Sherlock had watched powerlessly as the vessel was sent flying out of his friend's hands, shattering into a million pieces. Seconds later, he had been thrown back by the force of a small but powerful explosion. The room span and quickly blurred.

Struggling to view the unconscious bodies of John and Molly across the floor, Sherlock Holmes embraced the familiar blackness.

**_The End?_**

**And that's that. Thank you for all your amazing reviews and support for the longest story I've written yet! Any last thoughts would be welcome. :) MC. xx**


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